


She wants the silence, but fears the solitude/She wants to be alone and together with you

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [4]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Smut, also this is super long whoops, and there are sad parts, and these two wading through relationship stuff like true disasters, but mostly - Freeform, not outright angst i don't think but sad all the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: “You really should have it cut.” Wato combs back the bangs, lets her fingers linger as they try to settle them atop Sherlock’s head, totally not so she can avoid Sherlock curious look, totally not so she can prolong answering the question in them.In the end Wato can’t avoid them forever, so she mumbles, “So I can see your face.”And the choked noise Sherlock makes, the way her face heats up, the way she stares surprised at Wato makes up for her nerves, brings a wave of warmth to soothe them, has Wato leaning forward to kiss her forehead(A progression of their relationship, told through snapshots)





	She wants the silence, but fears the solitude/She wants to be alone and together with you

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be 20k words or have so many scenes. But it happened. Welp, no turning back now.
> 
> Mainly just wanted some fluffy scenes with the disaster wives. Also it references things from 'They shimmer and shine...' so idk you could read that beforehand, but I think it's explained enough here to get the gist across. Idk it's late and what are words even? (On that note some error's might've slipped through. My apologies.)
> 
> Enjoy folks.
> 
> The title's from 'Landscape' by Florence and the Machine

 

_“Even before I was touched, I belonged to you; you had only to look at me.”_

_— Louise Glück, excerpt of “The Burning Heart”, in Vita Nova_

 

———————

It escapes her no matter how hard she tries to pin it down. Like a photograph amid a board cluttered with them, interconnected with red lines. Like following a red line only for it to end in a bundle of photographs, one stacked over the other in a never-ending pile. Like chasing a note from a phantom symphony, guiding the bow carefully, pressing the strings just _right_ but still – still it skitters away, dives beneath the surface and she starts _again._

It eludes her like a word at the tip of her tongue yet all she finds are synonyms.

And there is no synonym for the moment Sherlock’s heart knew, irrevocably, unflinchingly, knew with every pulsing rhythm, with every breath, with every wayward thought, she fell for Wato Tachibana.

(She says her heart because it had taken her an absurdly embarrassing amount of time to realise she is, in fact, in love with Wato. Took her too long to categorise her reactions – the hitch in her heartbeat, the carefulness with her words, the upward tug on her lips, the itch to hold Wato – by the hand, by the arm, anything _everything_ – the wish to make her laugh, to fish out one of her dimple smiles –

Categorise as those of a person in love.

But, and she risks sounding as cliché as they come, her heart knew and she wants to know _why, how,_ what magnanimous yet quiet moment had swayed her so much it had decided, _yes this one, this one is for me, this one would cherish me._ )

It eludes her and Sherlock appreciates a good puzzle, appreciates having to work for a solution, but this is _frustrating._ And it’s taking everything she has to stave her itching fingers, to glare at the box of chocolates rather than tear into it.

_“You’ve been going through them like crossword puzzles,”_ Wato had said with a worried yet stern look, reminiscent of the doctor Wato could’ve become, yet it’s also become so intrinsically _Wato_ , so beyond what she could’ve been. Unworthy of what she could’ve been.

So no, Sherlock cannot say with the upmost certainty when or how she fell in love with Wato Tachibana. So she concentrates on something else, as best a synonym as her memories can provide –

Like the moment Sherlock decided she won’t ever leave Wato Tachibana again.

It had been after a nightmare, early into Sherlock’s return – the same day in fact, if she was feeling picky about details; less than 24 hours since she told Wato her name – less than 24 hours since Wato accepted it with a smile that held a promise of something, held their relationship in its grasp like one holds a kitten –

It had been after a nightmare, a nightmare of _that_ – a gun, and Moriwaki and a deceptively bright day and _“You’re my first friend”_ – and just imagining it has Sherlock’s stomach dropping, has her hands shaking, holding onto another pair and staring into hollow eyes and _hoping_ –

She had barged in, courtesy be damned in the face of Wato thrashing in bed, of Wato screaming _no no no,_ of Wato sobbing _Sherlock_. Courtesy and the coldness in her fingers, and the boiling anger at _that woman_ – at the damage she’s done to Wato, and what she’s put her through – all of it be damned four times over.

Sherlock doesn’t remember what she mumbled into Wato’s hair, doesn’t remember anything besides the feel of Wato in her arms, of Wato’s back shaking against her hands, of Wato’s tears dripping down her neck, of half formed words pressing into her neck, of hearing _sorry_ more than Wato ever needs to say. Doesn’t remember besides the moment Wato’s breathing settled, the moment her hands eased off Sherlock’s shirt. The moment Sherlock moved to slip away and Wato held on, stopped her with a wounded sound. Sherlock felt as if a bullet pierced her chest.

This isn’t the moment Sherlock vowed _Never again._ Although she did vow to make as few reasons as possible for Wato to say _sorry._

The moment Sherlock promised _Never again, I won’t hurt you like that ever again_ comes in the morning, with a half-drowsy Wato, hair mussed and hand outstretched to Sherlock; Wato with eyes so vibrant in the light, lips dipped into an impish pout, pleading lazily.

“I don’t wanna get up yet.” _Stay. Stay here._

Comes with Wato running shaking fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, mapping out the small scabs Sherlock’s gathered while playing dead. Comes with Sherlock cradling her hand – barren of cold metal, bereft of the iciness haunting Sherlock’s dreams, unsteady in a different way –

Comes with pressing that same hand – used to stitch her wounds, to ground her, to heal and not to kill, never to kill – to Sherlock’s chest. Comes with looking straight at Wato and saying _I’m sorry_. Hits her as she watches the words sink in, steals her breath as the miniscule twitches morph Wato’s expression, map out a repetition – _she’s real, she’s real_ – pulls her forward so much she’s nearly hugging Wato, hand pressing Wato’s to her chest, thumb skipping over the knuckles.

The moment Sherlock knew she would never, ever leave her is the moment Wato gave her a watery smile and her fingers dug into Sherlock’s chest.

And if she puts her hand over the spot, she can still feel the indents. Still feel the warmth.

———————

Wato doesn’t think about it – when she fell in love with Sherlock. She doubts honestly that it’s a singular moment and not a bulleted list – like the ones Sherlock adores to use. Truthfully she didn’t think about it at all, studiously avoided thinking about _Sherlock_ and _love_ no matter how warm her neck got or how flustered she felt.

And it worked for a time.

But then your formerly not-friend now actual-friend-slash-roommate-slash-working-partner introduces you as her _fiancée_ to a bunch of high society people, at one of the most prestigious galas of the year and, well, there’s that little voice putting _Sherlock_ and _love_ in the same sentence and it sounds. Bloody. Reasonable.

(More reasonable than the things people said behind Sherlock’s back, and at least when Wato dissects her feelings on loving Sherlock, she doesn’t have the urge to punch people in their snobby, high-and-mighty moustaches. Though maybe thinking about loving Sherlock maybe – possibly – ~~definitely~~ – could’ve factored into it.)

(No regrets, tho.)

Yet if she had to choose a moment – just one out of all the odd, warm, touching, dangerous moments they’ve had – well, first of all how the hell is she supposed to do that? It’s like forcing her to pick a favourite dog and you _can’t just do that to people!_ You can’t put them on the spot, right under the metaphorical spotlight and just say _pick one_ expecting it to be an instantaneous thing like if Wato snaps her fingers she’ll know –

_The morning on the couch_.

If she really has to pick when it sparked, the morning after the Shiina sisters, after Shibata had half-carried her to 221b, after Mrs Hatano helped her get out of her coat and guided her around furniture, after she passed out on the couch and felt something soft dance over her face. The morning of feeling something on her leg, of waking to see Sherlock at the foot of the couch with her head thrown back onto Wato’s leg. Of seeing her after thinking she wouldn’t, after thinking she wouldn’t come to 221b, she wouldn’t have another case with Sherlock, she wouldn’t hear Sherlock play, she wouldn’t – she simply wouldn’t _see_ her again.

(And it hurt, still does whenever Wato thinks of it.)

But she does, in all her expressive stretching, in all her excited explanations, in all of her borderline maniacal smirk, even with knowing Sherlock risked Wato’s life just to stop the drug from getting into the wrong hands – which, however logical, still isn’t _nice_ – in all how carefully she helps Wato stand up, how she’s surprisingly patient that day, how she doesn’t simply demand Wato moves out of the way but actively side-steps her –

Something settles in Wato’s chest, makes her lips quirk up without a care.

———————

“A present?”

Sherlock nods, hands stubbornly in her pockets so she doesn’t fiddle with the frayed seat in front of her. She’s staring ahead, right at the rotting theatre stage and not at all ignoring Kento’s incredulous look.

“You said it was an emergency.”

“It is.”

“Your indecision of a present for Wato isn’t the first kind of emergency that comes to mind.” A pause, purely to drag Sherlock’s attention back. And it works. Every time, damn him. “Or even the fifth.”

Sherlock pouts. “You need better priorities.”

“And you could’ve asked Mrs Hatano.” Kento raises a brow in challenge, and Sherlock’s pout grows even deeper. She’s already asked Mrs Hatano for help and the woman had gone on a digression about romantic dinners and so on so deeply she didn’t even realise Sherlock guided her out of the sitting room.

What good will a romantic dinner do, anyway? Sherlock wants to get something practical for Wato, not spend it all on over-expensive food with overbearing service and no privacy at all. It’s not even the prices, Sherlock would pay 20 dinners at fancy high society restaurants if Wato so much as asks.

(But she never does. Once she let her gaze linger on an ad for such a restaurant but instead of excitement, her lips dropped into a frown and she held tighter onto her bag. Sherlock’s yet to bring it up. Honestly she’d rather not bring it up.

Ever.

She’d rather tell her _the fennec fox has extra furry feet to stave off the heat_ because she caught Wato looking up fennec foxes on her laptop. She’d rather tell her _fennec foxes purr like a cat when they’re happy_ just to catch a hint of that goofy smile. Send her a picture of a baby fennec fox just to catch an adorable coo.)

So no, Sherlock doesn’t want Wato’s present to be a romantic dinner. She wants it to be something she’ll remember. Something that stays with her, something she can use. Something that’ll bring out that goofy, carefree smile. (And if that also reminds her of Sherlock, it’s just an added bonus.)

“Then get her something she likes.” Kento’s words cut through Sherlock’s musings, bring her back to the darkened theatre, back to him standing in front of her with an amused expression – the same kind she catches on him whenever he sees her with Wato – wait a moment –

Did she say all those things aloud?

No, no she definitely didn’t. Couldn’t have. No way.

_Deflect. Distract. Segue out of there._

“What a lovely idea, brother dearest,” Sherlock says in her sweetest voice, plants her hands on the seat in front so she can lean close to Kento, so he can’t avoid her sickeningly sweet smile. So he can see the exact moment Sherlock lets it fall and deadpans, “As if it wasn’t the first thing on my mind.”

“And it didn’t work?” His eyes follow her as Sherlock shrugs her shoulders, as she leans back and looks to the side. “You don’t know what she likes.”

“I know!” Sherlock shoots back, insulted. She knows the brand Wato wears, knows her shoe size and her preferred shade of coats. Knows the brand of bags she looks at in stores. Knows she prefers one teaspoon of honey in her tea. Knows which classical piece she hums absentmindedly. Knows precisely which brands of chocolate she swipes a second piece of. Knows her favourite novels.

Knows so much.

Sherlock’s hands hurt from where she’s hitting the seat in front of her before she drops into the seat behind with a huff.

The problem’s not a lack of knowledge, but the choice. And she can’t _choose._ She doesn’t want to pick wrong, to make a mistake. She wants – _needs_ it to be done right.

“Okay.” Kento steps between numbers 12 and 13, dusts off the seat next to Sherlock and gingerly sits. In her periphery, Sherlock spots him taking out a small notebook from his suit, and discreetly tries to read over his shoulder. But the spoilsport flips it to the back and opens a blank page – literally blank, no lines, no stains, not even a stick figure.

He waits for Sherlock to look up before offering a pen, “Let’s start with a list.”

\-----

The list had a total of 25 items. By the time Kento had only little over 1 minute left of his break, they’d crossed out half the list, made several addendums, scribbled additional notes in the margins, and circled two possible solutions.

As they were leaving the theatre, something clicked and Sherlock snatched the notebook out of Kento’s grasp, flipped over to the list and looked at the two words circled in blue. Her finger tapped the hastily written _Scarf_ – just yesterday she tossed a blue-green scarf at Wato so she wouldn’t be completely in browns and whites – the last one still smells like Wato and coffee beans – and the grey-orange one before that still holds a mix of her perfume and Wato’s scent –

_Scent._

And slowly a grin grew on Sherlock’s face.

\-----

She doesn’t see when Wato finds her present. Doesn’t see but she’s imagined the moment Wato wakes to find a bottle of purplish perfume sitting on her nightstand, imagined how her fingers stray to the little white card tucked beneath it, imagined her tracing the sentence written in it – _Your own little roses (and so you stop stealing my scarfs)_

(Never mind that Sherlock’s been actively giving her scarfs to Wato. Never mind that she won’t actually stop tossing them her way.)

She doesn’t see the way Wato’s face lights up, but with her head against the kitchen table, chemistry set neatly cleaned and orderly tucked away, she can dream it as many times as she likes, and that’s more than enough.

And if something warm falls over her shoulders, if the pressure against her cheek pierces through those dreams, Sherlock doesn’t particularly mind.

(And if Wato offers to work out the kinks in her neck because Sherlock fell asleep on the table, Sherlock _definitely_ doesn’t mind. Especially when her mind goes blank at a familiar scent.)

———————

Sherlock wouldn't say she's fond of dancing. Quite the opposite actually. She hated dancing lessons as a child, still remembers them and that imbecile of an instructor who learned the steps so rigidly she cannot teach anyone any different. It also didn't help that 88.8% of her advice was _Feel the rhythm_. As if one could feel the sound waves on their skin like an invisible guide, meant to hold her arms just so and move her feet just so. Ridiculous.

Kento managed to explain it better but it didn't remove the acidic taste in Sherlock's mouth just from thinking about those rigid lessons. After her parents' death – after the first gala without them – Sherlock would rather not think about it at all.

She does not like dancing. She is excellent at dances (out of spite) but she'd rather do something more productive.

But teaching Wato western formal dances is an entirely separate matter. Refreshing in a way that doesn't drag Sherlock down into her memories of _before_ , doesn't leave her with an acidic taste on the back of her throat, doesn't leave her restless for something else. It grounds her in the present, forces her to feel the wood beneath her feet, lets her focus on where her hands are, on Wato's breathing. Allows her to predict the exact moment Wato steps on her toes.

And most peculiar of all – leaves her _wanting_. Leaves her in such a state her mind wanders back to the lesson-turned-lessons, wanders back so seamlessly Sherlock starts when her book slips from her fingers; starts at the dichotomy – the phantom feeling of Wato's shirt beneath her fingers and the sight of them not, in fact, holding Wato's shirt. The precise curve of her pout when she missed a step. The exact way Wato inhaled when Sherlock told her to look up.

Her shoulders flare where Wato desperately dug her fingers in when Sherlock dipped her without warning –

(Though, if she were being utterly honest, the entire night at Goldminster's gala with Wato left her _wanting_. But the memory of dancing with Wato has struck deeper, lodged itself closer to her heart and refuses to leave. Not that she's likely to want it to.)

She might've been looking for an excuse to offer some more dancing lessons, even the flimsiest of all, but Wato beats her to it.

They were both a little frazzled by their newest case – Wato has gone through three thick folders and looking uncomfortably pale after the last one, while Sherlock has been running over scenarios involving the murder weapon, their two crime scenes and all seven of their suspects and all it’s gotten her is a headache. Rubbing at her temples had done nothing, pressing cold glass to her forehead hadn't abated the pulsing, and she was microseconds away from having Wato just step on her back to alleviate the pressure –

Then Wato's shadow falls over her papers.

It's only then that she notices there's music playing. Sherlock squints at the familiar tune. Familiar yet elusive. The strings tug at the back of her mind, flicker beneath her fingers, she can practically visualise the piano keys but she can't place –

_Wato's playlist_.

Sherlock barely has time to tilt her head, to formulate the beginning of a question when Wato tugs her upright.

"It's bad to sit like that," is all Wato says as she drags Sherlock to the sitting room – _has Wato moved the armchairs?_ Oh, she certainly has, Sherlock recalls them being precisely 1.5 metres away from the door not pressed against the walls. Shoved to the side for space but why –

Two things happen. The music picks up, the violins bearing down insistently, almost imploring. And Wato arranges their hands so she's holding Sherlock's left hand, while carefully placing Sherlock's right around her waist. And Sherlock's mind replaces all higher verbal functions with _!!!!!!!!!_.

(Those are three things, yes. Her mind can’t do basic math right now.)

It takes Wato stepping on her toes – a steady pressure that can’t be anything other than purposeful – for Sherlock to snap back to the present, for her to realise they're dancing, to realise Wato initiated it. To realise Wato _wants to dance_. It's only when the music shifts to a pure piano piece that Sherlock's feet move to follow the steps, her hand steadies on Wato's waist and the other switches her grip to a more comfortable one.

She fixes Wato with a considering look, which Wato meets head on. She's less pale than before. It could be the lighting but Sherlock's certain it isn't, and even if it was, she'll take the other option. Not at all because it calms her nerves, steadies her heart.

(But completely because of it.)

“If you wanted more practise, all you had to do was ask, you know.” And Sherlock steps forward, dips Wato not at all to prove a point or cut her off, but rather because she missed how Wato's fingers latch onto her shoulder. Easier this time. More trusting. Sherlock has to remember to breathe.

“I figured we'd skip your teasing,” Wato says with an innocent smile, a sharp contrast to the playful glint in her eyes. And she presses closer, definitely to cut Sherlock off for her innocent smile turns lopsided, for her eyes shine knowingly at Sherlock’s pause, at the way her fingers twitch around Wato’s.

Should Sherlock spin her in a twirl to leave herself room to gather her thoughts, Wato doesn’t say anything. Though the way she gasps when Sherlock tugs her close afterward is telling her everything she wants to hear.

And yet when Wato leans her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, nose tickling Sherlock’s naked neck, fingers sliding lower along her back, scratches like an afterthought – when Wato exhales and positively _relaxes_ in Sherlock’s hold, Sherlock can’t help but soak it in. Can’t help but bask in it.

\-----

Afterward, after the last song on Wato’s playlist dies down, after they linger longer still until they can’t hide it under an excuse, Sherlock thinks the documents look less daunting. The pulsing in her head is gone, left Sherlock with only a mild stinging behind her eyes. And Wato looks vibrant as much as relaxed, lips curved into a small, soft smile.

_Content_ , Sherlock categorises, and stores the sight for special occasions.

———————

Insistent knocking startles Wato out of her nap, has her jolting upright so fast her notebook slaps her feet and her pen goes flying somewhere beyond the bed, and oh, that’s what she was doing. She was going to write down the weird bird case but her pillow was just so soft and she swore _only five minutes_ and it’s now –

Four in the afternoon???

“Shit.”

“Wato, I know you’re not that focused on your writing,” Sherlock says in between spurs of frantic knocking. Then there’s a long pause, the silence so stark Wato can hear Sherlock’s huff as if she were standing next to her. “If you don’t say something, I’m coming in and then you’ll have to try and hide your _diary_ –”

“It’s not a diary,” Wato answers instinctively. It’s become a routine of late – Sherlock teasing her about her writing. A harmless prod much like the rest of her teasing. “Is it a case?”

“No. Better.”

_Better than a case?_ Wato slides the notebook off, leaves it on her table and absently scoops up the pen as she goes to the door. Sure enough it’s Sherlock standing in the hallway in her purple turtleneck and waving at her in that adorable manner of hers, with that pleased grin but Wato still asks, voice serious, “Where is the real Sherlock?”

The look she gives Wato is a mix of incredulous, insulted and downright shocked. Wato has to bite her lip to stop herself from giggling and stand her ground. Silence stretches between them, punctuated by Sherlock’s scoff.

“I told her I should’ve just texted you about it, but no –” Sherlock waves her hands, pitches her voice higher, sounding awfully like Mrs Hatano. “You have to tell her in person, Sherlock. It’s only polite, Sherlock. _Bah_!”

Definitely Mrs Hatano.

“Tell me what?”

And Sherlock freezes, as if she didn’t come to Wato’s door to tell her something, as if she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. Though the way her eyes dance along Wato’s face it seems like she’s taking her in for the first time, and, all right Wato’s bedhead isn’t that bad, is it? Wato runs a hand through her hair self-consciously and Sherlock snaps out of her daze.

“A date. Tokyo philharmonic orchestra. Concert. In the Opera Concert Hall. Tonight.” Sherlock blurts it all out, like reading off a list but what catches Wato’s attention is the way she’s rubbing her hands. Nervous. Like they hadn’t already pretended to be engaged in front of a manor full of (snobbish) high society people. As if they hadn’t danced closer than polite. As if –

_Yeah but have you gone on a date with Sherlock before?_

Wato can feel her neck heating up, fingers clenching around the door handle and _good Lord_. She can’t even hide how high her voice goes when she blurts out, “Okay. Great. Sure. Okay.”

(Not even nodding after every word can mask it.)

Either the excessive nodding or the squeaky voice (or both) has Sherlock looking at her like she’s grown another head, or maybe insulted one of her favourite old writers. But before Wato can say something (hasn’t yet figured out what that _something_ is besides _of course I’ll go on a date, why wouldn’t I go on a date with you_ , _you annoyingly wonderful woman?_ ) Sherlock nods at her – slow and steady. Then again, easier this time, eyes blinking off to the side and slowly, ever so slowly a smile blooms on her face.

Blooms like she’s just cracked a case, like she’s found the exact flow from point A to point H, like she’s found out a little secret no one else has – that wide, excited smile that has her eyes crinkling and her face lighting up and has Wato’s heart jump into her throat and her hands sweating.

“Tonight then. 1900 sharp, in the foyer.”

And she leaves with another tiny wave, and Wato pretends Sherlock isn’t lightly skipping as she goes. Pretends her heart isn’t doing the same as she repeats Sherlock’s words – _tonight, 1900, foyer, concert –_

_Date._

She might’ve made a high-pitched noise. But that was on the other side of her door, with only her bedroom as the audience.

Then it hits her – _What am I going to wear to a concert hall?_

And as if summoned, her phone pings with a text from Irene. _If you lovebirds are done, I’m in the sitting room eating all of Sherlock’s chocolates._

It pings again a moment later, this time with a picture – Irene staring worriedly into the camera, face stuffed with presumably chocolates, while over her shoulder Sherlock stands with her arms crossed and irritated. The caption reads _Welp, got caught #helpPls #saveUrStylist_

\-----

(“I left you more than half the package.”

_“Out.”_

Wato just drags the woman out of Sherlock’s sitting room before Sherlock actually does something threatening besides glaring at them.)

\-----

Having Irene test her patience for switching outfits – and being nearly poked in the eye by a makeup brush _thrice_ – is all worth it just to see the awestruck look on Sherlock’s face when she enters the foyer. Wato rushed to be there at 18:58 just so she could surprise Sherlock, and she wasn’t disappointed. Not in the slightest.

But the way Sherlock runs her fingers over her shirt, the way her lips curl into a half-grin, half-smile, unsure of what to become, the way she says, “Is this one of mine?” –

Well, let’s just say it’s good Sherlock doesn’t expect an answer. All Wato could offer is _kshfjsdddabsdhbbdhabshda._

———————

When they leave the concert hall, Wato’s still buzzing, the music still ringing in her ears, simmering beneath her skin, has her shake her hand in the night air, fingers flexing. A part of her feared the loud noise would trigger an episode, and braced herself the first time the horn – _“The double horn type”_ – players readied themselves but –

But Sherlock had leaned closer, her hand had slipped along Wato’s wrist, her fingers snaked between Wato’s and her armrest, and tugged the vice loose. Had let Wato’s fingers wrap around hers instead, hadn’t even tried to slip away. And the loud beat shaking through Wato’s chest isn’t entirely from the horns.

The concert went without an episode, surprisingly, but still left Wato abuzz.

It’s a small mercy Sherlock just leads her down the street, and then another and just goes on, doesn’t even bother to call a taxi. Somehow Wato expected Sherlock – always restless, always buzzing, always looking for a distraction – to hurry on home, to move on to the next thing, to be abuzz like Wato if not worse, but she –

Wato doesn’t think she’s ever seen Sherlock so calm, so at peace outside a solved case. Aside from maybe drinking her coffee. Wato’s hesitant to break the serene stillness with words, and Sherlock – who interjected the pauses between pieces with an odd fact about the upcoming piece or about an instrument – seems to think the same.

If asked, Wato would say it was a complete accident her hand brushes Sherlock’s as they walk, argue it was an utterly aimless shake of the hand, blame the symphony simmering underneath. But then Sherlock’s pinkie catches hers, tugs until she can interlock another two fingers, and Wato notes Sherlock looking down at their hands, catches Sherlock’s lips curling upward.

And if you asked her in that moment, with Sherlock looking so calm and happy, she’d confess it was all deliberate. (But she wouldn’t confess to finding Sherlock’s search history on the art of holding hands.)

\-----

When they cross a familiar entrance to a familiar yet utterly different garden, different in the night, with lamps offering a steady flow of dimmed light, different in that the flowers are in the background whereas they catch your attention in the day, different in how the air’s littered with fireflies –

_This was deliberate_ , Wato realises, while Sherlock leads her to a bench, hidden even from the lamplight. Leads with certainty, familiarity born from repeated visits – or from mapping out the entire garden and holding that map in your head – hey it’s possible, this is Sherlock we’re talking about.

“The light from fireflies is the most efficient light in the world. Nearly 100% of the energy in the chemical reaction is emitted as light,” Sherlock says as she puts her hand out, sprays her fingers wide enough to catch flies on each digit. Ever so slowly she brings the hand between them, and though Wato’s looking at the flies, she spots Sherlock’s smile from the corner of her eye.

Sherlock’s other hand is still holding onto Wato, and Wato shifts it minutely until she can intertwine their fingers. She thinks Sherlock’s smile shines as brightly as the fireflies, marvels at how Sherlock glows while offering random bits of information about fireflies, then about the garden, then about the lamps.

In between her explanations, before Wato can lose her nerve, Wato leans over and plants a quick peck on Sherlock’s cheek. And Wato might not be able to see her face properly, not with how dim the lamps gave gotten, but if Sherlock’s stuttering is anything to go by, she’s blushing.

Wato diverges to the time she followed fireflies along a little stream in her hometown, just so Sherlock has time to collect herself.

———————

Sherlock mentions it offhandedly while going through the victim’s documents – _“Oh we have the same birthday”_ – and Wato’s not proud of the way she lingers after Sherlock, how she mumbles a half formed excuse to Shibata just to see the victim’s ID again, of how quickly she shoves it back after a quick glance and all but runs after Sherlock.

_The 6 th of January._

That was _months_ ago. Well after Sherlock faked her death, still before she showed up in the middle of the street like nothing happened, like she was on a trip out of town. She had missed her own birthday, probably celebrated it alone if she celebrated it at all and –

And it tugs on Wato’s heart. Tugs and squeezes uncomfortably and _that won’t do at all._

\-----

Five days later Wato decides, irrevocably, that Mrs Hatano is a lifesaver. The case had taken most of their time and what little was leftover, Wato spent keeping the surprise from Sherlock in the simplest way possible – by actively not doing anything involving the surprise. You can’t sniff out a surprise if there’s nothing suspicious happening, right?

And Mrs Hatano has an active enough social life to mask a few extra trips to the store for groceries. Yes, just groceries, the candles weren’t on the list and the way Mrs Hatano smiled and waved them off tells Wato all she needs to know. That left her with the hardest part – how to move the kitchen table to the garden without Sherlock barging outside because of the noise?

The answer is simple – get Sherlock out of the house. But what are the odds of that happening?

Two words: Irene Adler. _Yeah, sure no problem, babe_ – a.k.a. the second lifesaver.

“I’m not going.”

Wato blinks, dumbfounded. “What do you mean you’re not going?”

“I’m in the middle of an important research –” Sherlock spins in her chair at Wato’s scoff, narrows her eyes in warning.

“It’ll take half a day for the liquid to stabilise.”

“Adding the solution lessens that to two hours –”

“That’s still two hours you have free!” Wato waves her hands, imploring, nearly begging. She might really have to beg as Sherlock leans back into her seat, or think of something quick for Sherlock’s getting that scrutinising look on her face. “You haven’t seen Irene in so long –”

“She was here two weeks and six days ago.”

Wato just covers her face, tries really _really_ hard not to groan into her hands and just blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind – “She mentioned she found a weird rock on her trip.”

Silence stretches forcing Wato to drop her hands and stare back at Sherlock’s curious look, stare back stubbornly and use all of her energy not to rub her hands together. Stare back until Sherlock shrugs and just gets up to fetch her coat. Just up and leaves with a _“Back in two hours.”_

\-----

True to her word Sherlock’s home two hours later and Wato nearly trips over the steps, nearly drops the plates when Sherlock says, “You’ve tidied up.”

She says it like an accusation and – _oh_ Wato did tidy up the sitting room. She might’ve gotten carried away with planning this whole thing. Before she can answer, Sherlock snatches one of the plates and places it on the table, practically studying the food on the plate along the way. With a shake of the head Wato joins her, takes the plate so she can put it properly on Sherlock’s side of the table.

“Celebrating something?” Sherlock looks around the garden, taking in all the redecorating Wato did while Mrs Hatano finished the food. “Or did you just want to eat out?”

Wato leans on the chair, takes in Sherlock’s pleased grin and says, “We’re celebrating.”

“Oh? What?”

“Your birthday.”

Sherlock’s grin falls and for a split second Wato worries, remembers she should’ve taken into consideration that Sherlock might not celebrate her birthdays; that it might be tied to whatever led her to change her name.

Looks around the garden, at how they cleared out the central spot, at the decorative lamps – those old ones from a period Wato’s sure people called them lanterns – scattered around the place, positioned to mark the way to the table; at the fancy tablecloth Mrs Hatano fished from the attic – _“As old as 221b itself”_ – at the fine plates, the silverware. Looks at how this all screams _romantic_ and thinks maybe this was a bit hasty.

_Maybe it’s too much._

_Stupid stupid stupid –_

But then Sherlock takes off her coat without fuss, basically plomps into her seat. Rubs her hands, her eyes take on a determined shine as she looks over the food, as if looking at it in a new light. She moves to snatch a spoon but stops once it’s clear Wato’s still standing, still staring at her like she’s grown another head.

She tilts her head inquisitively, absently playing with her spoon, and states, “‘We’ unless in the royal sense, includes two people, Wato.”

And Wato feels like laughing.

\-----

(Sherlock helps with the clean-up, and she pointedly raises her brow at Wato’s surprise, offers only _“You made the food”_ as an explanation. It’s not at all because the idea that Wato – even with clear help from Mrs Hatano – planned all of this, their own private little dinner, fished out age-old lanterns from the attic, even took out the fine tablecloth, just to celebrate a date.

A birthday Sherlock consciously missed because she “played dead,” to use Wato’s words. Because she had to throw suspicion off herself. Because it was necessary. Repeating it didn’t lessen the pain. Doesn’t lessen the pain.

But being close to Wato, even if it’s something mundane like washing dishes, listening to her hyperbole of a tale on braving 221b’s attic – it eases the tightness in Sherlock’s throat, relaxes her fingers, loosens her shoulders.

So by the time she goes back into her study, by the time she turns on the lights and spots the bundle of chocolates next to her PC, Wato’s already upstairs, had already bid _goodnight_. But the chocolates don’t steal her breath, oh no that’s reserved entirely for the book next to the bundle, bound with red cloth, finished off with a large, yet simple bow; for the card sitting atop with _Sherlock_ written in Wato’s handwriting.

No, what makes her heart stutter isn’t the fact that Wato’s found the exact book Sherlock has spent a week looking for, but the words written on the card, short and clear –

_I forgive you._

Sherlock didn’t even realise she’s been carrying the guilt with her since returning, since Wato didn’t leave, since she accepted her apology with a watery smile, a smile that says _I accept it, but I can’t forgive you, not yet_. Didn’t realise until it’s gone, and the feeling is _exhilarating_. And that toppled with the evening she spent with Wato, which Wato planned because of course she wanted to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday even if it’s been well over half a year, because that’s such a _Wato_ thing –

_Wato Wato Wato_

All of that makes Sherlock want to kiss her senseless.

And as she turns to the door, her eyes linger on the bundle of chocolates on the table and an idea solidifies.)

———————

Sherlock wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the first time she kissed Wato, she felt a tingling sensation on her lips. A simmer beneath the surface that slips away whenever she runs her nails over her lip, yet oddly it doubles when she drags her tongue. Triples when she thinks of Wato, of the melted chocolate on her lips, of the warmth – both on her lips and beneath her fingers as she ran them along Wato’s jaw, the second time around.

Because, and Sherlock won’t admit to anyone besides Wato – and only because Wato witnessed it – Sherlock had sought her lips after the first kiss. Surged after her even before they properly separated. Chased before her thoughts were settled into something other than _Wato_ and _finally_ and _soft, warm, ticklish_ and _Wato_.

( _You said Wato twice._ And she’ll say it a thousand more.)

She will admit it to Wato, for the woman’s lips quirked upward during the second kiss and her hands were less hesitant against Sherlock’s shoulders, dragged along to Sherlock’s collar. Sometimes Sherlock thinks she felt a tug on her collar but she’s not certain – there is a 0.2% room for error in her memories of their first and second kiss.

Her lips tingle yet a calm envelopes her along with the warmth spreading inside her chest at the thought of Wato, at the memory of their melted kiss. Downright addicting, more so than the finest of chocolates. And Sherlock thinks she’d gladly sell the latter for more of the former. If need be, of course. No need to be rash and make impractical decisions.

Though for every box chocolates she trades, a part of her knows Wato would replace them, and it only makes her grin that much bigger.

———————

Being sick and missing Wato is the _worst_ , as Sherlock’s repeated throughout the day. Not even teasing Kento helps when the busybody comes by with extra packets of tea, when he lingers longer than 20 minutes because _“perks of having the entire department apologise for wrongly accusing you of harbouring your fugitive sister.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_“Oh, yes, thank you for nearly getting caught scaling my building.”_

_“That was one time.”_

_“If only.”_

_“I wore a disguise.”_

_“Not one of your proudest moments.”_

(Not even tossing a pillow at Kento had helped. The tea he made did, but only as a mend for her sore throat and rising fever.)

But being sick for longer than a day, and having Wato send her drunken texts because she’s off drinking with childhood friends in her hometown is, by definition, _torture._

(Yes it is. The last variant of the definition. She’s not making this up.)

It didn’t sink in immediately that Wato’s drunk texting her. Mainly for it started with Wato sending her pictures of various parts of the interior design. Some were downright comical, while others had Sherlock’s migraine resurfacing. But when her texts lose any semblance of punctuation, start having a loose grasp on legitimate words and abbreviations replace every fourth word, Sherlock’s definitely considering it.

Just to be sure she sends _Are you drunk already?_

It takes Wato a good five minutes to answer, most likely due to socialising and not at all because she’s having difficulty writing. But after five minutes all Sherlock gets is a thumbs up and she can’t help but laugh. Her sore throat protests.

Her phone pings. _Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?_

Sherlock raises a brow, and maybe Wato has a point but she’s not going to admit it now – _Shouldn’t you avoid alcohol if you get drunk that easily?_

It earns her a tongue sticking emoji and Sherlock rolls her eyes at the childish response (yet the corner of her lips twitches.) Then her phone pings again –

_Have you ever seen something that’s changed you as a person?_

Sherlock doesn’t even think about the answer, doesn’t even stop herself from typing it out less she lose her nerve. She writes _I met you_ and presses send before the logical side of her screams because _feelings?!?!?! Vulnerability at 2 am?????_

( _“You dislike them but emotions suit you,”_ Kento had said after Sherlock demanded he return her phone which he confiscated after she suggested, purely hypothetically, that they sign up his co-workers for embarrassing websites. It’s only after her phone pinged twice more – making that three Wato messages she’s missed – that Kento gave it back.

Sherlock scoffed, listing through Wato’s messages. _“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”_

_“I’m sure Wato would agree.”_ )

She’s rubbing at her eyes to stave off the headache when her phone vibrates on her chest. Sherlock’s brows shoot up at reading _That’s really sappy and this is awkward bc I was gonna send you an img of a duckling in overalls._

And right on cue the picture comes through and – okay, it’s adorable. Not earth-shaking adorable, definitely nowhere near the impact Wato’s had on Sherlock’s life. But this is the woman who turns into a gibberish mess at the sight of a dozen kittens, so really Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised. (No, what surprises her still is how much she loves her.)

By the time Wato starts sending her pictures of random stray cats, and that one off picture of an actual painting Sherlock’s deduced is from a makeshift gallery, Sherlock has to force her eyes open, has to sit on the couch rather than lie down. She stubbornly pushes back sleep, even as her forehead flares, as her eyes start to sting with each blink. She’ll stay awake until Wato gets home safely, damn it –

She snaps her eyes open, fumbles with the phone in unsteady hands until she has the damned vibrating thing against her ear and rasps out, “What?”

_“I woke you up, didn’t I?”_ Wato asks in a surprisingly sober voice, void of stuttering or giggling.

“No,” is her immediate answer. She throws a cursory look at the clock – 4:04 am.

_“I did. And your throat’s worse –”_

“It’s fine.” Sherlock clears her throat as if to prove a point but it gets stuck halfway through.

_“I shouldn’t have –”_

“ _Wato_ ,” Sherlock admonishes lightly, forces the word out in a whisper. Silence lingers, punctuated only by the sound of Wato walking on gravel, presumably to her house, and Wato’s breathing. Sherlock nearly falls asleep to the soothing rhythm, catches herself sliding against the couch too late, and lands on the pillow with a huff.

_“You okay?”_

“Yes.”

_“You fell off, didn’t you?”_

Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with an answer. It’s answer enough she supposes, what with how Wato chuckles. The sound washes over Sherlock like a blanket so it’s not so bad. It would be better if she could hear it physically next to her, or better yet to feel it pressed against her chest, to have Wato in her arms, to map out her back, to simply breathe her in –

_God she’s a mess._

_“Hey.”_ Sherlock hums, but her eyes remain closed. _“I don’t know if you were being serious before, but I – um, well – uh, I –”_

“Wato,” Sherlock whispers. “Breathe.”

It might be the drowsiness but she picks up a grumbled _Tells me to breathe while talking like that, geez_ but what comes clear through the phone is – _“I’m glad I met you, too, Sherlock.”_

_(“I’m sure Wato would agree.”_ )

“Sappy,” is the last thing Sherlock remembers before sleep takes her.

\-----

Come morning she has a message – _Says one sap to the other._

Below it is another, marked as an audio file and Sherlock can’t recall what she expected, but hearing Wato whisper a _“you feel asleep so, uh, goodnight, sleep well, Sherlock”_ isn’t even close. And the warmth surging through Sherlock has nothing to do with a fever.

\-----

Wato arrives a day later, and Sherlock’s well enough to greet her with an almost regular voice, with only a leftover rasp, easily fades with a cup of tea, don’t worry, Wato. The woman does, in fact, worry and forces Sherlock back on the couch with another dose of antibiotics and a fresh cup of tea – _“Where did this brand come from?” “Kento brought it.”_

It’s only after she’s finished half her cup, and thus satisfied Doctor Tachibana, that Sherlock notices a fresh box of pastries on the table. Wato follows her gaze and her cheeks look as warm as Sherlock’s tea.

“Mom heard you were sick so she sent her family remedy. I figured it could wait after breakf –” but Sherlock just makes grabby hands at the box, goes so far as to pout to get Wato to hand over the box. (She’s sick, no tactic is off limits.)

Sherlock’s already stuffed one piece in her mouth – sweet and sour, with a dash of cinnamon and honey and something else – lime and mint maybe? – when Wato moves close and plants a kiss on the top of her head.

“I’m still making breakfast. And you’re eating it.” And as she moves away, Sherlock’s hand shoots out, takes Wato’s wrist gently, enough to stop her but easy to break. Waits for Wato to look back, clears her throat despite how to scrapes uncomfortably. She needs the words as clear as possible.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, eyes staring at Wato’s, unwavering, unflinching, hoping to convey what her raspy voice cannot. _I’m glad I met you too_ rings in her ears and she needs Wato to _understand –_ Sherlock meant it, meant the text with everything in her being.

The way Wato smiles, slow and steady, adoration blooming, the way her hand slips to hold Sherlock’s, how her fingers squeeze once, makes Sherlock think that she does understand.

\-----

(Sherlock pointedly places the box of pastries in the middle of the table, equidistance between them. It does not go unnoticed.)

———————

“Don’t lean forward so much.”

Wato straightens her back at the insistent tug on her hair, shifts minutely to catch Sherlock’s face from the corner of her eye, the way her brows are pulled together in concentration, the hint of a tongue peeking between her lips. She shifts back at Sherlock’s _tsk_ , tries to focus on the research paper in her lap, on the notes splayed out on the floor.

Tries but her mind goes back to the woman sitting behind her, to the way Sherlock focuses single-mindedly on something as mundane as braiding hair. Goes back and repeats the fact that _Sherlock knows how to braid hair_ , that _Sherlock is braiding her hair._ That she offered out of the blue, had already sat behind Wato by the time Wato mumbles out a _sure._

Wato tries to focus on the chemical equations in her lap but she ends up mumbling, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t know you knew of any other hairstyle besides a pony tail.” Sherlock shoots back and laughs at the pinch on her thigh. With her laugh echoing in her ears, Wato tries to focus again – _third time’s the charm, right?_

The first two equations seem all right – Wato’s not so sure as to their purpose, the text accompanying them present a wobbly logic at best – but she stops at the third. Reads it again. And again. Retracts back to everything she’s learned about chemistry equations and balancing them with supplements and this – it just –

It doesn’t add up.

“Sherlock,” she says as the weight of a braid slides along her shoulder – slides with a carefulness she’s grown so fond of – and where Wato expects a hum in question, she gets that but also _hands._

Or arms, rather. Sneaking arounds her waist, accompanied by the warmth of Sherlock pressing into her back, punctuated by Sherlock planting her chin on the braid-less shoulder, and ending with her humming right next to Wato’s ear, and it’s fine, _totally okay_. Wato’s not heating up at all. Her cheeks aren’t red from the proximity, nope.

“Wato?”

“The formula,” Wato blurts out, and she quickly taps the third formula to distract Sherlock from how shaky her voice is, distract her from how fast her heart’s beating. It doesn’t work, not completely, not if the way Sherlock’s rubbing her waist is anything to go by – running soothing circles with her thumb.

But Sherlock hums in that curious way of hers, like she’s spotted a hitch in the weave of things, and Wato blinks back into focus. Blinks furiously as one of Sherlock’s hands stretches out to the leftmost note and plants it over the formula. Raises her brows as the underlined words match the length of the formula, match the shape if Wato were to squint.

Then Sherlock chuckles next to her and Wato promptly forgets about the formulas.

\----

(Should they spend the entire night like that, with Sherlock melded to Wato’s back, chin stubbornly on Wato’s shoulder, mindful to whisper when so close to Wato’s ear, thankfully ignoring Wato’s twitches every time she speaks so close – going through all the versions of the research paper and matching formulas with words from the victim’s notes –

Should at one point Wato slip a hand down to where Sherlock’s arm is wrapped around her waist, coincidentally to slide her hand against Sherlock’s –

Should Sherlock hook her index finger around Wato’s –

Should they end the night by falling asleep with Sherlock’s back against the couch and Wato against Sherlock, with Sherlock’s chin on Wato’s head and Wato’s face turned to the side so she’s breathing in _Sherlock_ –

Well, neither of them particularly minds.)

———————

In a change of pace Sherlock’s taking her morning coffee not Wato-made and with Irene. At a coffee shop. Purely at Wato’s insistence on staying in touch, despite the woman not actually being here. She’s not even at another job, which is a nice change. She’s not utilising the full scope of her mental capabilities, merely wasting her talents at those odd places. Honestly Wato should just accept the inspector’s offer. She’s more than adequate (brilliant) at being a consulting detective.

No, Wato’s not wasting her time at an odd job. She’s at her self-defence class. With Mari Kaneko.

“They didn’t sweeten it enough, or are you imagining someone at the end of those daggers, darling?” Irene doesn’t hide her grin behind her cup, looks at Sherlock over her shades. Yet her brow’s raised in worry, not curiosity. Well, not entirely.

“Thinking of a case.” It’s not entirely a lie. Sherlock had taken to digging out anything she could on Wato’s instructor with a singlemindedness reserved for cases – and the one time Wato was missing, the one time Moriwaki nearly –

She doesn’t want that again, never again, not if she can stop it, not if she can be quicker this time, smarter, realise sooner, protect her from –

“Sherlock, breathe.” Sherlock snaps her eyes to Irene, then down to where she’s pointing – down to where her hand’s holding the spoon uncomfortably, fingers white and shaking.

She drops it with a shake of her hand. Rubs her thumb over the sore spot. Ignores Irene’s pointed look, until the woman folds her shades on the table. Until she moves her cup of tea away so she can fold her hands on the table, so she can turn fully to Sherlock. Sherlock ignores her until Irene’s stare drives pinpricks along her neck, until she has to look and recognise the familiar shade of concern.

Takes her back to a different place, a different time. _Takes her back to a different pair of eyes._

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, and can’t help but chuckle at herself. “Just a nuisance.”

“You think about nuisances now?”

“When the mind is free it wanders various paths.” And her phone pings as she finishes the sentence. Pings right between Irene and Sherlock, Wato’s name lights up just beyond Irene’s grasp and in perfect view should Sherlock look. (Of course she looks, she’s been fiddling with that device since they got here, had only discarded it once Irene not-so-subtly cleared her throat.)

“Wato’s fine.” Sherlock scoffs, crosses her arms and stares out at the street. “She is. Mari wouldn’t let anyone get hurt during her class.”

“Based on what?” Sherlock shoots back coldly.

“Based on the fact she’s my neighbour and I’ve seen her work.”

_Yes of course, it’s the same address. Idiot._ Sherlock turns minutely toward Irene, slowly looks at her as she rephrases the question twice before settling on, “Do you happen to live below Mari Kaneko’s apartment?”

“Yes.” Irene squints at Sherlock for a whole two seconds before realisation hits her (damn the woman) and she shakes her head furiously. She leans forward so only Sherlock hears her hissed out, “You’re not breaking into her apartment.”

“Well if you had a key, I wouldn’t have to.”

“No. _No_ , that’s not a good idea. Nuh-uh. The woman can _suplex_ you, Sherlock. I mean –” Irene laughs, clicking her tongue, biting her lip even, eyes shining in awe before she continues, “She can bench press me.

“Facts,” she adds at Sherlock’s head tilt, but it makes perfect sense. Mari Kaneko did invest all of her father’s savings into a gym, self-defence programme and her own education into five different fighting styles. That’s the short version, anyway. Short, rather boring version, aside from her father dying and never knowing her mother.

Still an apartment is a window to a person’s psyche.

“Don’t you trust her?” Irene asks abruptly and Sherlock blinks back to the present.

“It’s not her I don’t trust,” Sherlock snaps back, eyes glaring at Irene so much the woman leans back, raises her hands placating and – the surprise in her eyes is what shakes Sherlock out of it, reminds her Irene doesn’t know, for all she can figure out, for all she remembers from their time together she _doesn’t know, not about him_.

Because they don’t speak of it. Not her. Not Wato.

But Wato writes. And Sherlock –

“I need to be sure,” she confesses, voice quiet.

Sherlock checks. Analyses. Delves deep into the backgrounds so it doesn’t happen again, she won’t let it happen again, she won’t let Wato get used and chewed up and spat out. She won’t let anyone put that cold, detached look on her face; won’t let anyone haunt her, won’t let anyone dig their claws into her back, whisper orders into her ears.

“What – that Mari’s not a serial killer?” Irene jokes but her half-grin drops at Sherlock’s gaze, drops at how carefully Sherlock lowers her eyes to her phone. Mumbles an _oh_ , while Sherlock reads Wato’s message.

( _We’re going to grab a coffee, I’ll be home for lunch._ )

Wato can trust. And Sherlock trusts her. Implicitly. Irrevocably. Trusts her with _Sara Shelly Futaba._ With her entire being. With her heart.

“You so owe me a story after this,” Irene says, and Sherlock has enough time to blink stupidly at her, to form a question, before Irene picks up her shades and moves to the waiter, asking for the receipt. Uses the two minutes it takes Irene to pay the bill to collect herself, to send Wato a quick text and gather her jacket.

Wato can trust. But Sherlock will protect her.

———————

“What are you _doing_?” Wato hisses, and Sherlock peeks from inside Mari Kaneko’s pantry, surprised to see Wato here at all, surprised even more to see her alone and – oh, the sound from the hall is Irene talking a kilometre a minute. Covering for her. She really does owe her the full story.

“Is this where you grab coffee?” Sherlock won’t admit her tone is petulant.

“No. I tore my favourite – I tore my scarf and – wait, this isn’t the point!”

“Tore your scarf? Show me.” And Sherlock wastes no time crossing the small kitchen to reach Wato, sifts through the clothes hanging from Wato’s arm – a jacket, another thinner jacket, her workout shirt, _the scarf_ – not the orange one, that works best with Wato’s blue jacket. A tear right in the middle of it, like someone tugged on it, like it was used as an improvised vice –

“And you didn’t even take off your shoes!” Wato hiss-whispers, and Sherlock narrows her eyes at Wato, definitely not for her words, neither because of the tear (easy to mend, given enough time and thread) but at the implications of it.

Wato rolls her eyes. “Practice with improvised weapons. Nothing big. Nothing like say _breaking into_ _an apartment_.”

And Wato tugs on Sherlock’s arm at Sherlock’s scoff, raises her brows in challenge to Sherlock’s frown. Raises her hand to stop Sherlock’s very reasonable counterpoint, and then promptly shoves Sherlock back into the pantry, slams the door shut in her face and Sherlock’s pretty sure a bundle of lettuce falls on her head.

But on the other end she can make out someone calling Wato, voice deeper than Irene’s, mentioning something about taking Irene to her own apartment because she’s – she’s dizzy? Then Sherlock’s phone vibrates in her pocket and she quickly digs into her pocket to stop it less Mari hears it.

_A story and a bottle of wine, Sherlock._

It’s silent for a moment. Then another. Then footsteps come closer, and Sherlock straightens her back (however much she can) and readies herself to come face to face with Mari, ready to have to talk her way out of this –

Only for Wato to open the door, and promptly muffle a snort. She does help pick lettuce out of Sherlock’s hair, all the while nudging Sherlock out of the apartment. The silence hangs between them like a heavy chandelier and Sherlock sighs, long and heavy.

“I didn’t want another him. I didn’t – _You_ shouldn’t experience another him.” And Sherlock doesn’t know what she expects when she turns around to look at Wato. Admonishment, perhaps a dash of surprise, a slide of hurt. Definitely not understanding, definitely not for Wato’s hand to linger, to slide down Sherlock’s arm.

Definitely not to hear – “Next time talk to her. Interrogate her. Ask philosophical moral dilemmas. No break-ins.”

Definitely not for Wato to incline her head, with a small smile and ask “Okay?”

And most definitely not to cut of Sherlock’s nod with a kiss on the cheek. Maybe to send Sherlock home, but Sherlock didn’t anticipate how a _See you at home_ could wedge itself in her chest and warm her.

\-----

(So far Mari Kaneko isn’t a serial killer.

Though Sherlock will back that claim with verbal evidence. Just to be absolutely certain.)

———————

_“Be nice,”_ Wato had told her, under no uncertain circumstances, on their way to the crime scene, right in the middle of discussing Shibata’s promotion, so truly Sherlock couldn’t spin an excuse of _“you weren’t precise enough, Wato.”_

_Be nice_ , she told her and tugged on her arm until Sherlock agreed, until Sherlock looked her in the eyes, pouted and mumbled out an _okay._

So when Wato hears _“Oh, so now we’re somebody at the precinct, eh?”_ from over her shoulder, from her girlfriend who should be listening as Wato looks over their latest victim, she should’ve expected it honestly. She and Shibata seem to bring out the childish from each other and although it’s amusing to watch, Wato has a dead body to look over.

And it stinks of manure.

“Yes with a new badge, more responsibilities. More important duties than listening to you drone.”

Okay so the victim has been dead for – three-ish hours. Maybe. The manure is making things more difficult.

“Also more paperwork.”

“Because you never fill out yours!”

Sherlock’s laugh startles Wato enough that the victim’s jaw comes loose, and Wato nearly loses her breakfast as more manure spills out. He had to be buried in manure, couldn’t have died in a nice bush, there were so many bushes with nice flowers in this plantation, _why –_

“Because I have none.” And Sherlock’s voice steadies her.

“Huh?”

Inspector Reimon hands her a protective mask, and Wato gratefully exchanges the jaw for it.

“Nowhere does it say in my contract that I’m obligated to fill out any paperwork.”

“ _What?_ ” Wato tilts her head at the small blue material peeking from the victim’s pharynx. Taking a deep breath – and coughing at the stench, _okay bad idea_ – Wato braces herself and pokes her fingers in. “No, you’re full of it. That can’t be true.”

“Oh, so now I’m lazy and a liar.”

“Sherlock,” Wato calls when it’s clear her fingers can’t quite reach it. That it breaks up their little argument is purely coincidental. Not planned, nope. “Hand me the pincers.”

“Pincers?” By the sound of it Sherlock basically skips over, and one glance proves just how excited Sherlock is. She nearly manages to sneak by Wato, nearly touches the victims mouth without gloves but Wato lightly slaps her hand away.

“Pincers and gloves. Or –” And Wato extends her hand, forcing herself to stay strong in the face of Sherlock’s pout. She will not win this one. She will _not._

\-----

Sherlock doesn’t, in fact, take out the blue bundle from the victim’s throat.

She does however snatch it out of Wato’s hand almost immediately.

———————

She didn’t want to go by the rundown church, half-broken down even before the construction workers arrived to tear it apart for something more _useful_ – as if one person can decide what’s useful in a neighbourhood – not the point, in any case. The bookshop/café with the most intriguing combinations of tea is on the other side of the church’s neighbourhood, and going through the smaller streets is faster, and the church is right in the middle, ergo they’re going by the church.

The logic was sound, but it is a mistake. A heavy sound leaves her ears ringing, has her flinching and clamping a hand over them, has her eyes scouring the source – the bell, they’ve managed to crack the bell, idiots. But that’s not why it’s a mistake. Loud noises come and go. Ringing stops. But when she reaches a fork in the road and turns to find an empty space where Wato was – where she should be –

When a chill runs through her, when her heart stops for a moment, when her mind flares to an empty armchair, a dark roof –

When her eyes land on Wato, not too far away and her heart starts up again, her breathing continues, her mind goes _she’s okay, she’s okay_ – when she notices Wato’s curled against the solid fence-wall, staring at a spot, hands fisted into her jacket, her mind amends _she’s not, something’s off._

When she comes over and Wato flinches from her touch, damn near falls while trying to get away, that’s when Sherlock decides, irrevocably, this was a mistake.

She should’ve taken the longer route, it would’ve taken them 15 minutes more but at least Wato wouldn’t have an episode, at least she wouldn’t stare at Sherlock with such fear, with red eyes, keep her hands close and keep herself low as if –

“Wato. Wato. Wato. Wato.” Sherlock repeats, voice low, crouched in front of Wato, hands sprayed out so Wato can see them at all times, so she doesn’t startle Wato – _no sudden movements,_ she reminds herself. _Get her out, ground her._ “Wato, can you breathe for me?”

“No.” Wato shakes her head furiously, and tries to burrow deeper but stops as Sherlock moves closer, blinks at her until something settles – recognition flares. “No – no, the dust –”

“There’s no dust. Can you just – just copy me – breathe with me, okay?” And Sherlock exaggerates her breathing, takes it as slow and gradual as possible, gestures with her hand slowly until Wato follows along. Waits for four repetitions before describing her surroundings, waits for recognition to stay longer than a glimmer of light before moving closer, before taking her hands and slowly pulling her upright.

Waits for Wato’s eyes to settle, for her lips to shift away from the hard line, for her fingers to return the squeeze before she tugs them back to the bookshop/café. Should she hold Wato’s hand closer, thus forcing Wato to walk closer to her, it’s only until they reach the café.

There she’ll guide Wato to the quietest corner, away from the main bar of the café, lodged between two aisles of historic novels and semi-autobiographies. Guide her with fingers intertwined, tug her down into the couch next to her, shamelessly glue Wato to her side. Perhaps Wato would lean her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, maybe she’ll focus on their hands rather than her order, maybe her shoulders would relax into the couch.

Maybe she’ll notice Sherlock ordering her favourite tea with a handful of biscuits – definitely more than one gets with their tea – and there’s a chance she’ll say something, but more likely she’ll smile a little, adorable smile that lightens her face, reaches her eyes in an unpractised manner.

Should Wato mumble a _Sorry_ , Sherlock would counter with _Don’t be ridiculous_. Maybe even give her a long look, raise a brow. Definitely lean forward to nudge Wato’s head with hers, and certainly smile at Wato’s little snort at the action.

———————

It was an innocuous comment, mumbled mostly to herself with no intention of Wato ever hearing. And still the woman somehow heard. Not just heard, Wato had gotten that resolute shine in her eyes; that firm set in her lips; that little chin jut – the challenge in it – and Sherlock knows this isn’t the end of it.

Of all the things to get hung up over, Sherlock’s lack of knowledge in modern cinematography is the most ridiculous thing. And still Wato drags her away from her latest research – which was _very_ important, Wato – guides her to her room and Sherlock pauses at the door. Pauses because Wato has covered her bed in more pillows than Sherlock thought 221b had, has another stack of blankets by the edge and the amount of food she stuffed into four bowls is both alarming and surprising.

Wato pushes her to the bed, literally nudges her to sit and gives her a large packet of chocolate so it’s not all bad.

“You’re not eating all of that, by the way,” Wato points out and Sherlock waits for her to look back before she pouts. She’ll never get tired of how Wato stops at her pouts, how she visibly fights with herself. But this time it’s different, this time Wato shakes her head and steps back to Sherlock, this time she plants a kiss on her forehead and Sherlock’s the one who freezes.

Only unfreezes when Wato throws a blanket at her.

\-----

The movie isn’t bad. Its suspense of disbelief is stretched way too thin, and cute animations aside, the physics in it are just plain inaccurate, and Sherlock’s not to blame for wanting to educate her girlfriend on where the movie’s physics fall flat. Even if it includes multiple breaks and Wato throwing popcorn at her at one point.

“It’s aimed at children.”

“And how do they expect them to form logical thinking without a proper basis, Wato?”

Never mind how Sherlock gets invested by the end of it, how her nit-picks (to use Wato’s words) grow shorter and weaker. How she keeps her eyes on the screen and completely misses Wato looking at her and not the screen, misses the adoring smile on her face, doesn’t notice Wato sliding closer until she feels a kiss against her cheek, until she hears a _“So cute.”_

And not even the movie’s climax can hide away Sherlock’s blush, not even the dramatic peak of the soundtrack can mask her sputtering. But her pout does earn her another kiss, so it’s not completely bad.

(And the movie’s acceptable, she supposes.)

———————

Sometimes Sherlock forgets how amazing her girlfriend is. A foolish mistake. An incomprehensible oversight. An amateurish gap in her logic – truly, Sherlock curses herself for ever forgetting Wato Tachibana is anything other than breathtakingly amazing. Especially when she connects the dots Sherlock would overlook, especially when she connects them and they fit into the puzzle like they were waiting for her.

Especially when she chases Sherlock’s lips after the brief ‘thank you’ kiss. Most definitely when she grabs at Sherlock’s shirt to keep her close, when her lips taste sweeter than any chocolate, when – when her tongue slides along Sherlock’s lips, it’s with the taste of the most exquisite wine. Enough to get her drunk and craving more.

Enough to lean back against the couch and pull Wato with her, to get drunk with the feeling of Wato’s weight on her lap, intoxicated with the hands buried in her hair, soaked in the feeling of Wato’s shirt beneath her fingers. Craving her tongue something fierce, drinking up her moans, pulling her so tantalisingly closer Sherlock feels like she’s _burning._

And she would burn, drown in this woman, give her everything, take whatever she’s willing to give, just – _Wato._

“Sherlock,” Wato breathes against her lips, moves back once Sherlock chases after her, but that’s fine, Sherlock uses the opportunity to kiss along Wato’s neck, to draw out a needy sound, to feel fingers scrape against her head, drop down to her shoulder for purchase. “Sherlock, the phone.”

“What?”

Wato tugs on Sherlock’s hair to pull her back, and Sherlock bites back a deep noise at both that and the sight of Wato, fingers dig into her back and –

And ringing comes into focus. Ringing from the coffee table. Just beyond Wato. Familiar ringing like a –

Like a phone.

Sherlock groans into Wato’s shoulder, and the feeling of fingers running through her hair help nothing with calming herself down to talk to the inspector. (But when Wato tries to get off Sherlock’s lap so Sherlock can take the call, she just tightens her arm around Wato, holds her steady and gives her a look, a promise of an _after_.)

———————

She could intervene, simply walk over and stop Sherlock from poking every damn beaker in the forensics lab, but that would merely shift her attention onto other things quicker. And truth be told Wato’s reluctant to take away this source of amusement – or fascination? Excitement, definitely – after the look Sherlock gave her when she forced her to scrap her latest experiment.

It’s not Wato’s fault Sherlock disregarded the toxicity of raw silver, and she certainly won’t be sorry for trying to keep her reckless girlfriend from poisoning herself over – to investigate –

Wato can’t remember what the experiment was even about.

Knowing Sherlock it was probably something niche. Niche and dangerous.

So yes, she could intervene, but she’s not going to. The forensic scientists have gotten used to Sherlock’s antics, at least to the point where they’re not looking at her like she’s liable to break everything precious to them, so really it’s only a _slight_ inconvenience. Only until Shibata finishes his report.

She should probably listen to that. Then again cute girlfriend. (Hey, Wato is only human, all right? She’s doing the best she can.)

“You seem happy.”

Wato starts, heat flaring along her ears at having forgotten inspector Reimon’s standing next to her. But one look tells her he doesn’t mind, tells her he’s watching Sherlock, and the familiarity of his smile calms Wato.

He’s always amused by Sherlock’s antics, rather than irritated. The first few times Wato had thought it was a coincidence, but after hearing his laughter as Sherlock snaps a picture of Shibata holding evidence, after catching him hiding a smile as Sherlock and Shibata bicker, she knows better.

It’s what has her confessing _“Yeah”_ while her eyes follow Sherlock, watch closely as Sherlock inspects a batch of frozen bottles. Has her shake her head adoringly at Sherlock’s excited little wave – always excited by the cold fog, no matter how many times she sees it – no matter that she probably knows in detail its molecular composition. Has her stand there and just bask in Sherlock without the need to be careful.

“Yeah,” she repeats, having forgotten she’s said it already.

“It suits you.” Reimon pauses poignantly, and Wato catches him shifting next to her – fixing his sleeve maybe? – before he continues on, surprisingly soft, “Both of you.”

And if Wato didn’t have a dopey smile on her face before, she does now.

\-----

When Sherlock starts waving a fake skeleton’s arm around, managing to flick its wrist at just the right moments to punctuate her points, Wato decides that’s where the line is. She’ll brave Sherlock’s pout, as short-lived as it is adorable, if it’ll keep her from getting banned from the lab.

(Though honestly of all the things, a fake skeleton is what has the scientists twisting their hands nervously?)

It takes Sherlock no time at all, barely waits for them to enter the lift proper, to whip out a small animal skull and Wato’s not even surprised. Sure she didn’t even notice they had animal skulls or skeletons down there, but this is _Sherlock_.

“Did she just _steal_ that?” Shibata asks, voice tired and even.

“Not if she returns it later,” Wato says impulsively. She doesn’t register her own words until she hears inspector Reimon’s laugh, until Shibata groans on the other side. Until Sherlock’s grin becomes even more amused.

———————

Wato had never thought about learning another language.

Okay, maybe once. There was that one time, during her high school years where she was so enamoured with romance novels that she was _this_ close to taking up French. She can't rightly say why she didn't – perhaps a combination of studying for the entrance exam for medical school toppled with skimming a book on French grammar and paling at all the rules within the first 10 pages.

English she had to learn, much like everyone else she thinks so that doesn't count. One would think working with Sherlock would provide ample opportunities to broaden her linguistic horizons (Sherlock’s words, not hers.) But when you have to keep your girlfriend from blowing up your house or from stepping on too many toes during a case or, on the truly special occasions, both – let's say Wato doesn't have the energy to learn another language. Nor does she have to, she reasons, what with Sherlock's near encyclopaedic knowledge.

Except when Sherlock uses that encyclopaedic knowledge to tease her.

It's nothing drastic – a greeting in Italian, a word of Spanish thrown mostly to get her attention (Sherlock's little pleased grins are telling) and even some Chinese just so she can quote a work because she wanted it to be _authentic_ (Sherlock's words.) And all of those are fine, Wato has no issue with her girlfriend throwing foreign words and waiting for Wato to either ask the meaning or look it up herself.

(And she does wait, raises her brow in challenge, throws glances Wato’s way only to pretend she’s not when Wato looks, gets particularly antsy when her patience is at its end.)

Wato's come to expect it honestly.

So what's the problem? _French_.

Sherlock started interjecting French words into her explanations and _ho boy_ Wato hadn't expected it to affect her so much, hadn’t expected it to feel the same like when she read those (cheesy) romance novels. Only more so, because it's one thing to read the words on your own, with undoubtedly dubious pronunciation, and it's a completely other category for Sherlock to _speak French_. The way she enunciates the words, the way her voice goes deeper, smooth like melted chocolate and it leaves Wato's heart drumming in her ears, has her neck warming and drags a shiver down her back and it's so _unfair_.

And Sherlock knows. Has to know. Twice is an accident but to do it near every day, to purposefully end her explanations with a grin and a husked out word in French, to interject it like one of her pokes in Wato's side – it's nothing if not planned. Calculated. And damn that woman it works. Works so well Wato has to hide her face and count to 6 to calm herself.

And the worst part is Wato's sure Sherlock's speaking gibberish. And Wato totally doesn't buy a beginner's guide to French on her way home just to be sure Sherlock's teasing her with gibberish. It's not. It's just a healthy amount of curiosity. A completely normal development when you spend near 24/7 with Sherlock.

Also Wato's totally right, Sherlock's teasing her with gibberish. Nonsensical gibberish. Nonsensical, stupid, _sexy_ gibberish. _Unfair_.

Never mind how a part of her secretly loves it. Never mind how she would gladly take endless teasing just to hear Sherlock's voice get like _that_. Never mind how she'll pout just to get Sherlock close, just close enough to whisper another word into Wato's ear (also gibberish, she’ll later find out) and please disregard how Wato's has to remind herself to breathe afterward.

Or how when Sherlock gets that faraway look in her eyes, when melancholy tugs at her features, when the normally restless woman just stops, Wato takes out the guide and reads the first word she sees. How at first Wato thought her off pronunciation was what pulled Sherlock back. Yet the more she does it, the more Sherlock's eyes linger on her and she realises – _oh._

Maybe it’s not the words but who says them.

And maybe it’s something that becomes a thing. Maybe the guide stays in Wato’s bag, or in her pocket because she managed to find the compact guide. And maybe sometimes she opens the guide to find little red stripes as bookmarks, follows them to words like _chérir_ or _doux_ or _splendide_.

But what most definitely happens is – they fall asleep in the same bed, another thing that just happened without words and neither of them particularly minds, and Wato’s sure Sherlock’s fast asleep, warm against Wato’s back, snoring lightly into her hair, arms tight yet somehow simultaneously loose around Wato’s waist but still miraculously not bundled up in all of the covers –

And Wato’s so sure she’s asleep the words catch her off guard.

_“_ _Mon trésor,_ _”_ Sherlock mumbles into her hair, voice soft and vulnerable and holding hints of sleep but – but the words ring clear, and for once Wato doesn’t need the guide to understand them. They shoot through her like a wave on a summer day and leave Wato feeling warm that has nothing to do with the amount of blankets they have, and everything to do with the woman sleeping behind her.

Should she turn around and press _minette_ into Sherlock’s collar, well, the woman’s snoring fast. And should she bring it up in the morning, Wato has no problem repeating it. Especially to see a flustered Sherlock.

———————

Wato wakes to the feeling of something tickling her back. But it’s quick and fleeting and barely draws a mumble out of Wato, half lost in her pillow. She buries her nose in the soft material and is ready to let sleep drag her back to its warm shores but it happens _again._

It’s not light this time. Still fleeting, sure, but the touch applies enough pressure on her shoulder for her eyes to squint open, leaves a distinctive tingling that has her fingers digging into the sheets beneath the pillow. She can’t shake the feeling the touch is familiar, fleeting, tingling, warmth – all of it familiar.

The third one’s lower on her back, closer to her spine and less hesitant. Where the first two vanished as soon as Wato registered them, this one lingers, practically drags along her skin, leaves a trail of warmth. A trail Wato’s intimately familiar with, has her lips curving upward and her right hand patting along the bed for the source of that trail.

The touches hitch when Wato’s fingers find her wrist, but they return into a long, draw out one when her fingers wrap around Sherlock’s wrist.

“What’re you doing?”

“Appreciating art,” Sherlock practically presses into Wato’s skin, traces along the scarred tissue – one of the deeper ones, lower down. The one that flares at the first hints of rain. The one whose pressure Wato tried to discreetly rub away for the past week. Not so discreetly it seems.

Wato concentrates on the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on her back rather than the words, claims the shiver running through her has everything to do with Sherlock’s touches and nothing at all with her words. But it’s a slippery slope, and Wato’s mind is still clinging to sleep, so it’s easy for her mind to transport Sherlock’s lips lower, to recall the exact feeling of Sherlock tracing her thighs, of her fingers dancing along the same path, of Sherlock breathing over –

_“Sherlock.”_

_“Beautiful.”_

Something else drags close to her spine – skimming along a jagged scar – and Wato flinches at how ticklish it is. Which is the wrong thing to do because Sherlock freezes, and Wato knows, instinctive knowledge born from spending so much time with Sherlock, from picking up on the nuances of her thinking – she knows without turning around Sherlock’s got a wicked grin on her face.

Knows she has around 1.5 seconds to react before Sherlock uses the fact _Wato is ticklish_ to her advantage, and she just twists.

But it’s too late, Sherlock’s fingers are already dancing along the spot and Wato bites down on her lip to stifle the giggles and yet tries to push through them –“Sherlock don’t.”

But one look at the playful glint in Sherlock’s eyes – ignoring her dishevelled appearance, ignoring the memory of how it felt tugging at that hair, ignoring the sight of the marks along her neck – has Wato grabbing one of the smaller pillows and hurtling it in Sherlock’s direction.

\-----

The tickle fight (more like tickle battle with how many pillows flew) ends with Wato somehow atop Sherlock, hands pinning Sherlock’s above her head, holding steady as Sherlock tries to slip away. Yet one look at her face confesses she isn’t actually trying to escape. Just rile Wato up.

And, oh, who is Wato to refuse her?

Who is she to refuse when she can have Sherlock panting into her ear, have her shaking and wanting and breathing out _Wato_ with such need it leaves _her_ shaking; when she keeps one of Sherlock’s hands pinned, when the other’s scrapping along her back – dragging along the side without scars, digging only where there aren’t any with such care despite her need and it makes Wato groan with the warmth seeping through her chest, makes her double her efforts, makes all of Sherlock’s sounds all the sweeter.

Makes Sherlock dig her fingers deeper, but these marks Wato’s willing to wear. Especially with the way Sherlock’s fingers linger afterward, careful despite her dazed expression. Soft much like her smile. Dare she say loving like Sherlock’s gaze.

Sweet like the clumsy kiss they share.

———————

Sherlock didn’t consider the strength of Wato’s immune system until she had remained in bed one morning with a stuffy nose and a headache. Her girlfriend had managed over 8 months without catching anything, over 8 month since meeting Sherlock, and is miraculous considering, well, everything.

Naturally Wato had waved off the cold, claimed she was fine, it’ll pass with hot tea. But she barely got through breakfast without cradling her head and Sherlock’s hand burned against her forehead. Even if Mrs Hatano didn’t shoo Wato to bed, Sherlock was likely to drag her back to their room, bundle her under blankets and scour their bags for antibiotics.

Then Sherlock jumps right into her long list of remedies, which she may or may not have tested; which she may or may not have found while coming down from a caffeine overdose – was it last year? The year before that? Not important.

Yes, she brings her – basically feeds her – Mrs Hatano’s soup, scrunches her brows and leans closer at every forced down swallow, at every wince, combs Wato’s damp hair back once the bowl’s mostly empty.

She offers her a glass of salted water, instructs Wato to gurgle and slosh it around her mouth. And Wato does give her a dubious look, does point out her throat’s not sore, but she does it with a barely there shrug. Then Sherlock hands her another glass, this time of lemonade and – okay, maybe she should’ve added sugar in there.

(Mrs Hatano stops her from going out and fetching some _Artemisia argyi_ leaves. States the smoke would just clog Wato’s sinuses further. Well of course, Sherlock knew that. She did. Somewhere in the back of her mind.)

And all right, maybe she overdoes it with the garlic for Wato’s lunch, but at least the bath’s easy enough to prepare, at least her hands are steady as she helps Wato into the tub, at least Wato’s skin’s not burning so much beneath Sherlock’s hands, at least there’s some colour other than red on Wato’s face, and there’s a hint of that adorable smile.

“Wait,” Wato grumbles from bed, grabs Sherlock’s hand from where it’s still holding the blanket, look up at Sherlock with sleepy eyes. “Enough with the remedies. Just use the sure-fire one.”

“The sure-fire –”

And somehow Wato tugs Sherlock down next to her, partially over Wato, nearly hits her nose against Wato’s forehead. By the time Sherlock turns around so she’s on her back, Wato’s got her left arm in a vice and has decided it’s a more suitable pillow that the two pillows surrounding her. Though Sherlock’s protests, half-hearted as they are, die in her throat at Wato’s contented sigh, at the way she tries to burrow deeper into Sherlock’s turtleneck, at the calm spreading along Wato’s expression.

_Maybe you just wanted cuddles._

Sherlock shakes her head, her lips curling into a smile. She fixes the pillow more comfortably against her head, snatches Wato’s latest reading material off the nightstand and just settles in.

\-----

(By page 59 she’s sound asleep, book pressed to her chest and with one of Wato’s hands in her own.)

———————

It’s an odd feeling stirring beneath Wato’s hand, curling inside her chest. It takes her a long while to figure out it’s longing mixed with the stark silence of being alone, spiced up with pinches of dread, with flashes from her semi-feverish mind – flashes of a silent home, of an empty chair – flashes of a gun and a sunny day and a name at the tip of her tongue, of the emptiness seeping in until it near swallows you whole –

Wato didn’t think Sherlock going on a case alone would affect her so much. Didn’t think she’d miss her so much. Because Sherlock’s done cases alone before, hasn’t she? This is no different.

_Lies, it is. This time you have no distractions, no excuses not to come._

_This time you want to be there._

Wato turns to the other side, so her back’s to the door, burrows deeper into the blankets, hides her pout, presses her hand firmer against her chest as if it’ll make the weight go away. Or maybe she buries her nose in the pillow, buries herself in Sherlock’s smell in the hopes of a distraction.

She jumps at the sound of her phone ringing, pats the sheets before she remembers Sherlock put it beneath her pillow for ease. Her heart kicks against her chest as Sherlock’s name (definitely not with several hearts and a cat emoji tacked on) shines on her screen.

Yet she doesn’t expect to hear Shibata answer. Neither does he by the sound of his, _“– throw your phone around – oh, hey Wato. Sorry you’re sick.”_

“Thanks, but why – is that Sherlock’s phone?”

_“Well, you girlfriend just threw her phone at me and – don’t touch that! That’s evidence –”_

There’s the distinct sound of the phone being passed on somewhere or to someone, the sharp pang as the line nearly breaks, and Wato winces as a loud chuckle reaches her ears before it simmers down pointedly.

_“Miss Wato, I hope you’re feeling better today.”_

“A bit. Thank you, inspector,” Wato says at length, shifting so her back’s against the headboard, mind already going through all the possible reasons they’d call. “Is everything alright?”

_“Oh. Yes. Sherlock just wanted Shibata to inform you of the case.”_ Wato breathes out, another chuckle ringing in her ear. _“However, she’s sifting through evidence without gloves.”_

_Again_ goes unsaid, but it draws a chuckle out of Wato all the same, lifts the weight off her chest, eases her back against the headboard with loose shoulders. The image of Sherlock bickering with Shibata stays with her even as the inspector describes the crime scene, lists all the things they’ve found so far – and Wato’s lips quirk at Sherlock shouting distantly on the other end, adding fresh observations or minor corrections.

\-----

Should Sherlock return earlier than expected (given that she’s supposed to investigate two of the victim’s close friends) and should she just shrug and mumble _I may have pissed them off_ , Wato shakes her head, not surprised in the slightest.

But should Sherlock toss her the folder, with the case documents neatly folded and categorised by type; toss it while she goes to the kitchen with a box in her grasp that suspiciously resembles Wato’s favourite brand of tea – should Sherlock return with a fresh cup of tea and delve right into explaining the case, Wato will simply listen and try to keep her smile from turning too smitten.

Thought it’s growing ever difficult with the way Sherlock fusses – fixes Wato’s robe, resettles the blankets, lingers until Wato repeats what she’s just said, discreetly keeps gazing at how much Wato’s drunk of the tea.

———————

It’s not the first time Wato’s said it – _Your hair’s gotten long._ Far from it actually. She thinks she’s in the double digits as of this week, not that she’s counting. She’d much rather count Sherlock’s little grins when she says it, would rather remember the way Sherlock’s eyes crinkle around the edges as she does, would commit the inflection of _Maybe_ to memory, no matter how much it means _Not yet._

Because Sherlock’s hair has gotten long, the longest bang reaching half her neck and the rest furiously tossed back, combed back with deft fingers just so she wouldn’t have to worry. And it’s odd, or well, oxymoronic. Sherlock who dresses as she does, always sharp and fashionable and definitely puts more thought in her clothes than Wato does, prolongs a trip to the hairdresser. Prolongs it so much Wato’s half temped to give her hair ties, half temped to leave bobby pins along the sink, so Sherlock’s sure to find them.

(She does one morning, but when she comes down for breakfast Sherlock’s neck-deep in their latest case, hair a dishevelled mess and no bobby pins in sight. Or the day after. Or the day after that.)

Wato’s nearly certain Sherlock’s avoiding the hairdresser just so she has an excuse when she wants Wato to comb through her hair; purposefully leaves it dishevelled in the mornings so Wato runs her fingers through trying to tame it back. And maybe leaves it longer so Wato has something to hold onto while Sherlock’s tongue plays her like a cello; and maybe she loves to twirl that one long lock around her finger afterward, when Sherlock’s leaning over her, face giddy and loving.

And maybe it makes Wato smile. But she still thinks Sherlock should get a haircut.

Especially when she returns half wet with their suspect – who she chased through a fountain of all things – “The sign clearly stated it was deactivated for maintenance.”

“It said out of order for maintenance,” Wato corrects, towelling Sherlock’s hair in inspector Reimon’s bathroom. His house was closest and he was kind enough to offer – five times, and each with a smile despite Wato insisting they’re fine – and his wife actually has clothes that don’t hang off Sherlock. Even if they are pastel pinks and blues.

So here they are.

“That means it can act up.” And Wato clicks her tongue when Sherlock tries to escape, untangles the towel with a flourish only to see Sherlock’s adorable pout. Then her bangs fall over her face and Wato has to bite back a laugh.

“You really should have it cut.” Wato combs back the bangs, lets her fingers linger as they try to settle them atop Sherlock’s head, totally not so she can avoid Sherlock curious look, totally not so she can prolong answering the question in them.

In the end Wato can’t avoid them forever, so she mumbles, “So I can see your face.”

And the choked noise Sherlock makes, the way her face heats up, the way she stares surprised at Wato makes up for her nerves, brings a wave of warmth to soothe them, has Wato leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

Sherlock recovers quickly enough, takes Wato’s hand when she moves back to toss the towel into the sink, and pulls her back, wraps her arms around her and buries something unintelligible into Wato’s stomach.

\-----

The next morning Wato follows the sounds of a cello to the garden, follows to Sherlock practicing in the shade of a tree with Songbird chirping along above. Finds her nearly melding with her floral robe. Catches Sherlock’s eyes, reads the pleased shine in them before she realises Sherlock’s bangs are shorter, before she realises Sherlock’s hair is tamed.

“Better?” Sherlock asks, bow against her thigh and staring up at Wato, and her expression reminds Wato of a cat – proud and inquisitive, looking for attention.

“Very.” And the sound Sherlock makes as Wato combs through her hair is very close to a purr. The way it runs through Wato as she presses their lips together is definitely a purr.

———————

It’s not that bad, objectively speaking. Just a few scrapes along her arm, a sprained wrist and a shallow cut on her forehead. It definitely stings, but nothing clenching your teeth and reciting the periodic table backwards won’t help with. Sherlock’s definitely had worse.

“That’s not comforting you know,” Wato grouses. _Oh she said that out loud._ “At least you wore a button-up.”

Oh, so that’s the sensation Sherlock’s feeling along her front. And it also explains why Wato’s so close. Not that Sherlock needs a reason behind that. It’s always a pleasure to have her girlfriend so close, especially when she scrunches up her face in concentration but it just ends up being adorable – tongue peeking between her lips like a cat’s blep and brows pulled tight, like she’s constructing a boat miniature inside a bottle when she’s really unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.

Unbuttoning her shirt because Sherlock can’t. Because she can barely move all five of her fingers without hurting. Or at least last time she checked, which has been a while – wait, let’s see – index, thumb, middle fing –

_Nope nope nope_

_Oganesson, Tennessine, Livermorium, Moscovium, Flerovium –_

“Sherlock, breathe.” Wato’s voice cuts through the molecules, and Sherlock blinks back to the feel of Wato’s hand on her face – palm against her cheek, close to her lips, pinkie tickling the line of her jaw and thumb sliding against her cheekbone. Blinks back to Wato’s eyes on her face, both exasperated and concerned and – is that a hint of adoration?

“You had to move your fingers _again_ , didn’t you?” Wato shakes her head, already knowing the answer. “Pinched a nerve punching that guy and you had to move your fingers.”

“It was a test –”

“For what?”

“Pain threshold.” And Sherlock nearly flinches when Wato’s other hand comes to her cheek, not from the touch but from the speed it flew through her periphery. Releases a confused noise as Wato brings her face closer so she doesn’t have to be on her tiptoes to meet Sherlock’s gaze properly. Pinches her brows at the heat in Wato’s eyes, at the harsh tug of her lips.

“Don’t do that. It’s not funny. It just –” Wato huffs, eyes slipping down from Sherlock’s face, seeing something unseen, focusing on something far away, perhaps even another time. Sherlock’s injured hand comes up to touch Wato’s before she catches on and bites the inside of her cheek to stop the hiss but Wato still hears.

Sherlock blinks and suddenly she’s sitting on the couch Wato cradling her injured hand between hers and slowly, carefully guides it to the armrest. Sherlock blinks and Wato’s close again, coat discarded and a sad shine in her eyes. But she blinks and it’s gone, replaced by a small smile, by thumbs skipping along Sherlock’s cheek.

Replaced by lips on her forehead. Erased by the words _“Please don’t do that to yourself.”_

(And it speaks of a pain, of a long buried ache, of guilt and Sherlock doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to dredge up bad memories because she acted irrationally, because she saw him creeping out of a side street with a sharp object in his hand. Doesn’t want Wato to feel guilty because Sherlock tried to protect her.

After all Wato’s the one who brought him to the ground. Sherlock merely stunned him.)

And this time Sherlock brings her uninjured hand up against Wato’s, holds it close so she can easily turn to the side and press a kiss into her palm. As good of a promise she can make.

“I’m going to take your shirt off.” And Wato’s hands slide from Sherlock’s face, her fingers slip easily from underneath Sherlock’s. Slide and slide but without the teasing, until they settle on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Then we’ll see about that cut, okay?”

And Sherlock’s nodding even before Wato’s finished, moving her hand even before Wato’s fingers slip around her collar and she hisses –

_Nihonium, Copernicium, Roentgenium –_

(“It’s okay. Steady. Steady. Breathe. Inhale. That’s it. There one down. Exhale. You’re doing great.”)

\-----

(“Sherlock I can’t clean your wound if you bury your face in my shirt.”

“But it’s comfy.” It’s a solid reason. Absolutely, 100% logically solid and definitely reason enough for Sherlock to nudge her nose further into Wato’s stomach. Not even the fingers combing through her hair can lure her away, only make her tighten her uninjured fingers against Wato’s back.

“I’m serious.” Sherlock doesn’t move, even as the fingers turn to nails along her scalp. “If you get blood on my shirt –”

“I’ll wash it.”

And Sherlock feels Wato’s laugh, feels it in the tug of Wato’s muscles, picks up on the disbelief. “If you get blood on my shirt, I’m emptying your chocolate stash.”

The speed with which Sherlock leans back leaves her disoriented for 0.5 seconds, has her blinking up before Wato’s figure comes into focus. And Sherlock barely manages a _“You wouldn’t dare”_ when Wato triumphantly mutters _“Gotcha”_ and presses the antiseptic against Sherlock’s forehead.

The hand against the back of her neck, the fingers pressing comfortingly into her skin are the only thing keeping Sherlock’s whine at bay, morph it into a whimper. But that short interval of pain is worth it for the quick kiss Wato presses to her gauze.)

———————

Wato doesn’t expect Sherlock to be so sombre when they visit a cemetery. Or so absentminded. Not with how she was excited over finally having an interesting case after two weeks of relatively simple cases, solved within the same day. But the moment they step through the gates it’s like a switch flicks and Sherlock’s shoulders rise, straightens her back so rigidly Wato’s hand itches to soothe along it.

She sends her a questioning look but Sherlock ignores her, keeps her eyes studiously on their surroundings and keeps her sentences short, so short they remind her of the first day at 221b. So Wato doesn’t say anything, concentrates on the graveyard keeper and getting information about their victim. Stops a few times so Sherlock can catch up.

Until she turns and Sherlock wandering in a completely different direction. Wato barely spares a few words before she’s weaving through the graves to catch up, and a part of her can guess where Sherlock’s going. It scrapes at the back of her neck, nearly trips her, brings her back to a different grave with a different name but –

But that’s not in this cemetery. Purposeful, she suspects given how Sherlock’s not dead.

Wato finds Sherlock standing above two partially overgrown graves – once upon a time someone cleaned them, cleaned polished the stone underneath as well, but it looks like it’s been a while. If she leans to the left, squints a bit, Wato can barely make out _Futaba_ , and her heart drops. Her eyes snap over to Sherlock – impassive, unmoving. Dare she say cold as the graves they’re seeing but no –

No, that’s simply not true. She’s unmoving because she’s holding herself back. Impassive because she’s pushing it all down, hiding it behind a tense jaw and unfocused eyes and hands buried in her pockets. Hiding it to keep herself together, hiding it so she doesn’t crumble to the grave like Wato would – like Wato did before a different grave, with a rose in her hands and words dying on her lips.

Wato slowly stands next to Sherlock, and silently takes in the graves, lets her mind wander to what the Futabas must’ve been like, tries to recall if Mrs Hatano said anything about them, picks through the gossip from Goldminster’s gala for anything legitimate.

Comes up with barely anything when Sherlock startles her with a hand on her arm.

“Let’s go,” she says, voice hard and raw, controlled and so unlike Sherlock Wato holds her back, forces Sherlock to look at her. Asks a question without words, steps closer, runs her hand up to cover Sherlock’s, tilts her head and raises her brows. Sherlock’s eyes focus possibly for the first time since entering the cemetery, and her lips twitch on one side before she shakes her head. _Later. Maybe._

Should Wato take a detour on the way to the victim’s family shop, should that detour involve a quaint little part-bookshop, part-café and ordering the sweetest hot chocolate they have with an extra helping of cream, Sherlock acknowledges it with a squeeze around Wato’s fingers, with a small, twitchy smile, with a lingering glance when she thinks Wato isn’t looking.

Acknowledges it with a boop of cream on Wato’s nose, with a giddy grin at Wato’s pout.

\-----

“Their anniversary is soon,” Sherlock confesses a few nights later, leaning on a rooftop rail and looking at the sky, while Wato looks on at the busy street below.

“Whose?” Wato asks out of habit more than anything. She has a pretty solid guess who Sherlock’s referring to, but to quote the woman _“A solid guess and an unshakable certainty are vastly different things, Wato.”_

Sherlock sighs long and heavy, shoulders rising and falling and Wato thinks she should’ve guessed, maybe if she guessed, it would’ve spared her this, spare Sherlock voicing it. But then Sherlock lowers her gaze to Wato, and she seems calm – _ethereal_ , a part of her whispers; ethereal in the mesh of darkness and city lights, standing on the precipice of two worlds and doesn’t fit in either, and _oh._

That’s fitting isn’t it?

“My parents’.” And she offers a smile, one of her faux-polite ones, and Wato still can’t tell you why it feels so misplaced on Sherlock’s face – whether it’s the taunt line her lips make, the way it pinches Sherlock’s face, or how its control, its rigidity is the complete opposite of how Sherlock smiles.

“On the 15th,” she tells the streets below them, voice wistful and heavy with memories, and it doesn’t take much to imagine Sherlock repeating the same date every year. Isn’t hard to piece together why the graves are left as they are, isn’t hard to pick up on the underlining guilt and anger.

And certainly isn’t hard to distract Sherlock with questions about the properties of neon lights.

\-----

No, the hard part is hiding the statice flowers from Sherlock, but luckily Mari had changed up her lesson timetable so Wato had 30 minutes free to pick up the flowers while Kento drove Sherlock to the cemetery – under the guise of going someplace else, of course.

After the night on the roof, Sherlock hadn’t spoken of her parents or their anniversary, hadn’t even insinuated anything, left no breadcrumbs for Wato to follow, no hook for Wato to question. Yet she had caught Sherlock staring at the date more than usual. Had caught Sherlock chewing her lip more vehemently, had at one point dragged her thumb over Sherlock’s chin, then her lower lip and clicked her tongue.

(Of course mumbling _“So rough”_ while so close Sherlock can 100% hear her had those lips turning into a wicked grin and heat climbing the back of Wato’s neck.)

Wato spots Kento talking to the keeper, a bag of gardening tools sitting between them. He offers her a small wave. It’s easy to spot Sherlock now that Wato knows which grave to look for, and Wato greets her glare with a smile.

“Your idea.”

“Yup,” Wato confirms cheerfully, and offers the bouquet. Sherlock stares at them like Wato’s offered her wild flowers for breakfast but Wato can pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock recognises the type of flower and her face softens with an _oh._

“Kento’s coming to help clean,” Wato says as Sherlock holds the bouquet in her grasp, as if she’s holding a small kitten and not flowers, eyes dancing over them as if seeing statice for the first time. Wato supresses a giggle, fixes her back on her shoulder and mumbles, “I’ll head home.”

She hasn’t taken two steps proper when she hears _“Wato.”_

Stops as the clear hesitation in Sherlock’s voice, feels something inside crack at how unsteady it is. Turns around to see Sherlock staring at her, biting her lip and looking unsure, as if she can’t find the right words; as if all the words are trying to tumble out at once. But Wato sees the way Sherlock’s fingers have dug into the bouquet, notices how Sherlock’s stepped forward before speaking.

Sees the invitation.

_Stay. Please stay._

And she does, without question. With a smile. With a hand on Sherlock’s arm. With a steady presence as Sherlock crouches to put the flowers down. As a helping hand when Kento comes with gardening tools. Stays as an anchor to Sherlock’s questioning gaze before she turns back to the graves and whispers, “Hello mother, father.”

\-----

(On the way back Sherlock tells Kento to drop them of someplace that isn’t 221b, much to Wato’s surprise. It takes her two streets before she recognises where they are, before she realises Sherlock’s taking her to that little garden with a dozen or so adorable kittens. Takes her right to the centre of the garden, right next to where the kittens were lounging and of course they tumble over to them the moment they sit down.

It’s because of the onslaught of kittens that Wato doesn’t notice Sherlock picking at the nearby flowers, not until she feels something rest behind her ear. Her hand snaps up to grab it, catches Sherlock’s fingers just as they slip away and she finds –

A rose. A thorn-less rose.

Turns to find Sherlock with the most loving smile and petting a kitten on her shoulder. And something warm settles in Wato’s chest at the sight, has her smile stretching, a giggle bubbling to the surface just like a kitten tumbles in her lap.

Has her saying, “Sap.”

And Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate. “Only for you.”

And Wato leans forward to kiss her because how could she not kiss her incredibly sappy girlfriend?)

\-----

(Wato puts it in a vase the first thing they come home. Keeps it on her nightstand of course.)

———————

When Wato jolts awake to an empty bed and an extra pillow tucked beneath her chin, she squishes the pang of sadness with burying her nose in Sherlock’s pillow; chases it away by relishing in the sting along her lower back, in the pinpricks along her legs. Pushes it back with the memory of Sherlock taking her again and again and _again,_ each time with more fire, dragging her teeth along Wato’s neck and her tongue against Wato’s chest and saying such filthy yet complimentary things Wato shudders just thinking about it.

So Wato’s content to lounge in their bed, bundled in sheets and inhaling the smell of honey and chocolate and _Sherlock._ Perfectly content to let the morning drag on with the sound of cello –

Wait is Sherlock not practicing today?

That’s clue #1.

Clue #2 is far more jarring – consists of finding Mrs Hatano in the sitting room, drinking her tea, and Songbird pecking happily at a biscuit. Songbird who is banned from the sitting room after, allegedly decorating the armchairs on his last fretful dash through the house. (Alleged because that was before Wato came to 221b, and Mrs Hatano is both colourful in her descriptions and tends to hyperbole for dramatic effect.)

Clue #3 are the words “I’m barred from the kitchen until 8:35am.” Coincidentally 10 minutes away. Coincidentally the time of Wato’s usual alarm but she forgot to set it today. And then she hears it – sounds coming from the kitchen down the hall. Sounds of pots clinking and the only person not accounted for is –

“I said don’t come in.” Yep, that’s Sherlock’s voice amid the sound of pots and the smell of vegetables boiling.

“It’s Wato.”

“Oh.” Comes through the door, only to be cut off by something sizzling, and Sherlock cursing. Wato really, really hopes Sherlock didn’t burn herself. (Even if the chances of it being true are less than 20%) She’s about to knock again when Sherlock says, “I’m not done yet. Wait in the sitting room.”

Wato frowns, then remembers Sherlock can’t see through a door. “What about breakfast?”

“I said wait.”

“And your coffee?”

“I’ve got it handled,” Sherlock hurriedly insists and okay, _what?_

“You’re making your _own_ coffee?” A beat, punctuated only by the sound of bowls sliding along the counter and a teapot whistling. “Alright, where is Sherlock? What’ve you done with her?”

“ _Wato._ ”

“Answer the question.”

“Just 8 more minutes.” Wato raises her brow and it’s as if she can see her, Sherlock adds “Please.”

Okay, Wato can wait 8 more minutes. Mrs Hatano certainly has more than enough biscuits for thrice the amount of time. She can wait while her girlfriend hopefully doesn’t get burned, sets something on fire or worse in the kitchen. But hey, honeyed biscuits.

\-----

Exactly 8 minutes later Wato hears the kitchen doors slide open. She turns her head in time to catch Sherlock in her dark pants and crisp white shirt and in a tacky orange apron (not only tacky orange by with cartoonish flowers) and – is that cake batter on Sherlock’s cheek? Wato’s so confused (and stunned) she entirely misses what Sherlock’s carrying until it’s right in front of her on the table –

Breakfast, toppled off with muffins. Muffins suspiciously similar to the ones Wato tried a week ago at the sweets’ parlour Sherlock prefers. But as Sherlock arranges the plates and bowls, Wato spies the red blistering on the back of her hand and she sighs, gets up to fetch some gauze and antibiotic ointment. By the time she gets back Mrs Hatano’s gone and Sherlock’s studiously pretending she didn’t anxiously wait for Wato, pretends at boredom, but Wato can see right through her.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I can’t decide to be nice and make breakfast for my girlfriend?” Wato looks up from wrapping the gauze, raises her brows pointedly and Sherlock huffs, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. “Fine. It’s for the anniversary.”

“Anniversary?” And Wato does some mental calculations, but no, their anniversary isn’t for another two weeks, and the only other dates are birthdays so what –

“Since you came to 221b,” Sherlock mutters into her hand, looking at the breakfast but shooting glances Wato’s way and Wato feels like a fool. It had been so chaotic she hadn’t even bothered remembering the date, had thought it a temporary thing at the time. Hadn’t imagined even in her wildest dreams how much 221b would become a synonym for home.

“But someone had to wake up early.”

How much the woman in front of her would come to mean to her. Burned hand, petulant pout, tacky orange apron – all of it, _all of her_.

“I was cold,” Wato argues, gaze firmly on the gauze so she doesn’t brunch it up, so it doesn’t scrape at the irritated skin.

“Absurd. You had extra blankets.”

With a nod Wato lets Sherlock’s hand drop, but not before giving her fingers one last squeeze. Not before stating, as one does the weather, “I was cold because you weren’t there.”

And Wato doesn’t even bother stifling the pleased smile as Sherlock’s cheeks flare red, as she renders her girlfriend speechless and leaves her with a restless energy she doesn’t know how to handle. Doesn’t even bother abandoning the laugh as Sherlock tugs her back once she tries to walk past her.

That is until she feels Sherlock’s lips on her own. She’d gladly abandon a thousand laughs to kiss the woman she loves. (After all she’d already abandoned her heart – abandoned it in Sherlock’s hands without a single regret.)

———————

Sherlock’s been sitting on the idea for a while now, if she’s being completely honest. But something else always got in the way – an experiment, a case, an errand, Wato’s self-defence lessons, making out with Wato, making out with Wato only for it to turn into other activities. Always something else, always something to push the idea to the back of her mind and only resurface when she wakes in the morning holding Wato.

And it started with an innocent comment, spoken on a rainy fall morning – “I wish I knew how to play.”

Repeated again, muttered on lazy afternoon in a summer house, not meant for Sherlock’s ears but Wato’s eyes bore into her, demanded attention so really how could Sherlock not hear – “She plays so good, I bet I would be a mess.”

Sherlock finally gets the opportunity the morning after they solve their latest case – no, correction, after _Wato_ solves their latest case. And it was glorious watching her girlfriend – amazing, breathtaking, adorable girlfriend crack the case, connect the murder weapon with the true killer and not the manipulated party. Breathtaking watching her confront the killer head on, without hesitation, yet still holding that nuance of politeness that’s just so _Wato_. Left Sherlock as giddy as Wato, had her cheeks hurting from smiling so much, forced her to bite her lip to try and keep a hold of herself as Wato went over her thought process again and again.

(And you can’t blame Sherlock for kissing Wato senseless the moment they reached 221b, kiss her until they were both left dazed and craving, Wato pinned to the foyer wall, right next to the apartment door.

And Sherlock’s not to blame for Wato’s very vivid reaction to Sherlock husking out “You were spectacular, Wato.” Not to blame despite having prior experience with it. Not to blame despite repeating it over and over again. Not to blame at all despite enjoying every second of it.)

So after breakfast, Sherlock leads Wato back to the sitting room, guides her to sit on the cello stool (Wato and Mrs Hatano’s words) and carefully places the cello between Wato’s legs, hands her the bow. And nudges her forward so she can sit behind her. And definitely doesn’t smirk at how Wato twitches as Sherlock slides closer, definitely doesn’t enjoy the way Wato’s breathing hiccups as Sherlock slides her hands over Wato’s and guides them to the cello.

Certainly devotes 100% of her concentration on teaching Wato how to play the cello. Doesn’t let her attention wander to last night, to where those fingers were, to all the different tunes they drew out of Sherlock, to how Sherlock whispered different things into Wato’s ears, thing that have nothing to do with music, though melodious in French.

But here’s the thing – at one point her mind settles on the present, at one point her fingers turn from teasing to guiding, at one point Wato grounds herself in the present, in what she’s doing and not who’s sitting behind her, not whose breath is against her ear. Hears the whispered words. And though her fingers are rigid, her movement cautious, Sherlock feels her relax, hears her mutter the rhythm under her breath – _up, down, second, third, second, drag, third fourth, down, choppy_ –

Sherlock turns her head to see Wato with her eyes closed, seemingly calm. Except her brows are pulled down in concentration, and her tongue peeks out every odd moment, and she wrinkles her noise when Sherlock corrects her bow – wrinkles it in such an adorable way –

Sherlock’s not sure what makes her say it, what draws the words out – the sight of Wato concentrating so much on something Sherlock likes to do, the memory of Wato solving the case, the lingering intoxicating excitement afterward, or simply being this close to Wato, simply looking at Wato and reminding herself _This is my girlfriend; me, she chose me, chooses me every morning._ Thinks _This is a woman I gave my heart to, would give my heart to again and again_ –

Whispers, “I love you.”

Wato’s hands falter on the strings, the bow slips from her fingers but Sherlock catches it. Her eyes snap open and Sherlock counters Wato’s surprised look with a simple smile. No excuses. No digressions. Honesty. Trust.

  _My heart in your hands. My everything in your hands._

And Wato looks at her for a long moment, a long nerve-wracking moment, long enough For Sherlock to start moving her hands off Wato’s, but then Wato starts _laughing._ No, she starts giggling and Sherlock’s brows shoot up, her lips pull into a pout before Wato’s right hand cups her cheek, before she hears the breathy _Sorry, sorry_

“I shouldn’t laugh but – I just thought you – thought you knew.” And Wato’s hand leads her forward. And Wato leans forward herself, until their foreheads touch, until Sherlock can map out all the details of Wato’s expression, until she’s got an HD display of Wato’s amusement and happiness. It leaves Sherlock’s chest hurting from all the love, has a laugh of her own bubbling up her throat, has her leaning into Wato’s palm, planting a kiss, then another and another.

“I love you too, you dork.”

And Sherlock’s never been more fine with being called a dork.

———————

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things:  
> \- The concert they were listening to was of Antonin Dvorak’s pieces  
> \- Statice -> Sympathy; Remembrance  
> \- The rose on Wato’s ear was a red rose, bc I’m a sap  
> \- Mari Kaneko -> Mary Morstan (I fiddled with her last name, as thus I apologise if I've seriously butchered or offended while doing so)


End file.
